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AUTHORS  DIGEST 


THE  WORLD'S  GREAT  STORIES  IN  BRIEF,  PREPARED 

BY  A  STAFF  OF  LITERARY  EXPERTS,  WITH 

THE  ASSISTANCE  OF  MANY 

LIVING  NOVELISTS 


ROSSITER  JOHNSON,  Ph.D.,  LL.D, 

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF 


ISSUED   UNDER   THE    AUSPICES    OF   THE 

AUTHORS  PRESS 


This  is  Volume  XVII  of  a  complete  set  of  the 

AUTHORS    DIGEST 

Consisting  of  Twenty  Volumes^  Issued  Strictly  as  a 
Limited  Edition,  In  Volume  I  will  be  found  the  Offi- 
cial Certificate^  under  the  Seal  of  the  Authors  Press ^  as 
to  the  Limitation  of  the  Edition^  the  Registered  NuTnber 
of  this  Set,  and  the  Name  of  the  Owner, 


AUTHORS    DIGEST 


VOLUME  XVII 


ANTHONY   TROLLOPE 

TO 

EMILE    ZOLA 


Issued  under  the  auspices  of  the 
AUTHORS      PRESS 


COPYRIGHT,   igo8, 

By  the  authors  PRESS 


CONTENTS 


Anthony  Trollope 

PAGE 

The  Warden i 

Barchester  Towers 9 

Orley  Farm 20 

Can  You  Forgive  Her? 32 

The  Small  House  at  Allington 42 

He  Knew  He  Was  Right 52 

John  Townsend  Trowbridge 

Neighbor  Jackwood 63 

Cudjo's  Cave 75 

Ivan  Turgeneev 

Fathers  and  Sons 85 

Smoke 96 

Giovanni  Verga 

The  Malavoglia 107 

Jules  Verne 

Twenty  Thousand  Leagues  under  the  Sea       .     .     .118 

Virgil 

The^neid 128 

FRAN901S  Marie  Arouet  Voltaire 

Zadig ...  135 

ix 


X  CONTENTS 

Horace  Walpole 

PAOB 

The  Castle  of  Otranto 148 

Lewis  Wallace 

Ben-Hur 157 

Mary  Augusta  Ward 

Lady  Rose's  Daughter 168 

Charles  Dudley  Warner 

The  Golden  House 181 

Susan  Warner 

The  W^ide,  Wide  World 191 

Samuel  Warren 

Ten  Thousand  a  Year 198 

Stanley  Weyman 

A  Gentleman  of  France 210 

Edith  Wharton 

The  House  of  Mirth 221 

Oscar  Wilde 

The  Picture  of  Dorian  Gray 236 

Mary  Eleanor  Wilkins 

Jane  Field 248 

Ellen  Price  Wood 

East  Lynne 259 


CONTENTS  xi 


JoHANN  Rudolph  Wyss 

The  Swiss  Family  Robinson 268 


PAGE 


Charlotte  Mary  Yonge 

The  Heir  of  RedclyfiFe 282 

Israel  Zangwill 

Children  of  the  Ghetto 292 

fiMiLE  Zola 

Claude's  Confession 301 

Therese  Raquin 312 

The  Abbe  Mouret's  Transgression 321 

Drink 331 

A  Page  of  Love 340 

Nana 352 

Germinal 364 

The  Land 376 

The  Downfall 387 

Fruitfulness 398 

Labor 409 

Index  to  Stories  in  Volumes  I  to  XVII      .     .     .     .421 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


I  saw  what  must  have  been  a  sunken  vessel  which  had 
lain  there  long.     {Twenty  Thousand  Leagues  under 

the  Sea  J  p.   123)    ----------        Frontispiece 

Photogravure  from  a  drawing  by  H.  A.  Mathes. 

PAGE 

Portrait  of  Frangois  Marie  Arouet  Voltaire      .     .     .     .     135 
Photograph  of  a  statue  by  Jean  Antoine  Houdon. 

This  was  a  large  steam  laimdry,  full  of  disheveled,  bare- 
armed  women,  aided  by  saucy  youths.    {Drink)   .     .      332 

From  an  etching  by  A.  Robaudi. 

Helene  slipped  on  a  petticoat,  and  was  soon  hurrying  to  the 

house  of  Dr.  Bodin.     {A  Page  of  Love)    ....     340 

From  an  etching  by  A.  Robaudi. 


xni 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE 

(England,  1815-1882) 
THE  WARDEN   (1855) 

The  motive  of  this  story  suggested  itself  to  Anthony  Trollope  when  he  was 
rambling  about  the  precincts  of  Salisbury  Cathedral  one  evening  in  midsummer, 
1852,  and  rather  more  than  a  year  later,  while  staying  temporarily  at  Tenbury, 
Worcestershire,  he  wrote  the  6rst  chapter,  or  a  part  of  it.  He  shortly  afterward 
took  up  his  residence  in  the  Donnybrook  suburb  of  Dublin,  and  there  The 
Warden  appears  to  have  been  completed  in  the  autumn  following.  It  was  the 
first  of  what  are  called  The  Barsetshire  Series,  six  tales  concerned  "with  the 
intricate  relations  of  one  set  of  families,  all  within  access  to  one  cathedral  city, 
covering  a  whole  generation  in  time  and  exhibiting  the  same  characters  from 
youth  to  maturity  and  age."  In  the  "Barsetshire"  of  the  novelist  is  outlined 
the  Hampshire  of  fact,  and  ''Barchester"  itself  has  for  its  original  the  cathedral 
city  of  Winchester.  Hiram's  Hospital,  which  figures  so  prominently  in  The 
Warden,  is  the  well-known  Hospital  of  St.  Cross,  which  every  pilgrim  to 
Winchester  makes  a  point  of  visiting,  and  the  account  in  the  closing  chapter  of 
St.  Cuthbert's  Church  at  Barchester  is  a  singularly  precise  description  of  the 
tiny  church  dedicated  to  St.  Swithin  and  situated  directly  over  the  Kingsgate 
of  the  city.  In  his  Autobiography  Trollope,  while  acknowledging  that  the 
Times  newspaper  was  alluded  to  in  this  story  as  the  Jupiter,  disavowed  intention 
to  refer  to  any  editor  of  that  paper  under  the  name  of  Tom  Towers.  But  that, 
in  the  portrait  of  Dr.  Pessimist  Anticant,  Thomas  Carlyle  is  meant,  there  is  very 
little  doubt. 


Jen  years  prior  to  the  beginning  of  this  story  the 
Reverend  Septimius  Harding  had  become,  at  the 
age  of  fifty,  precentor  of  the  cathedral  of  Barches- 
ter and  warden  of  Hiram's  Hospital,  an  alms- 
house established  in  Barchester  in  1434  by  one 
John   Hiram,   a   wool-stapler  of  the  town,  for 
the  maintenance  of  twelve  superannuated  wool- 
carders  native  to  Barchester   and    lifelong  resi- 
dents therein.     By  the  terms  of  the  will,  certain 
estates  were  left  for  the  support  of  this  charity.     Besides  the 
almshouse  for  the  old  men,  a  house  was  ordered  to  be  built  for 
the  use  of  the  warden  of  the  hospital,  who  was  also  to  receive  a 
A.D.,  VOL.  xvn.— I  I 


2  THE   WARDEN 

definite  sum  annually  out  of  the  rentals  of  the  estates.  As  the 
centuries  passed  the  estates  increased  greatly  in  value,  and  when 
wool-carding  ceased  in  Barchester,  bishop,  dean,  and  warden  put 
in  dependents  of  their  own  in  turn,  each  inmate  receiving,  under 
the  will  of  John  Hiram,  "comfortable  lodging  and  one  shilling 
and  fourpence  a  day."  The  property  was  farmed  by  the  Bish- 
op's steward,  a  Mr.  Chadwick,  whose  ancestors  had  done  like- 
wise, and  in  modern  times  the  income  of  the  warden  had  been  so 
augmented  that  he  received  eight  hundred  pounds  a  year  in  ad- 
dition to  the  rental  of  his  house,  and  the  cathedral  precentorship 
of  eighty  pounds,  which,  at  John  Hiram's  desire,  was  attached 
to  the  wardenship. 

Murmurs  had  arisen  to  the  effect  that  Hiram's  property  was 
not  fairly  divided,  and  these  having  reached  Mr.  Harding's  ears 
he  announced,  on  his  induction  into  the  wardenship,  that  he 
should  add  out  of  his  own  pocket  twopence  a  day  to  each  man's 
stipend,  amounting  to  sixty-two  pounds  eleven  shillings  and 
fourpence  in  the  year.  This  proceeding  was  opposed  by  Mr. 
Chadwick  and  others,  but  the  warden  did  not  yield. 

Mr.  Harding  had  married  early  in  life  and  had  long  been  a 
widower.  His  eldest  daughter,  Susan,  had  been  married  a 
dozen  years  to  Archdeacon  Grantly,  son  of  the  Bishop  of  Bar- 
chester and  rector  of  Plumstead  Episcopi.  The  Bishop  and  Mr. 
Harding  were  close  friends,  and  both  were  in  awe  of  the  master- 
ful Archdeacon.  Eleanor,  Mr.  Harding's  second  daughter,  was 
about  twenty-four  at  the  opening  of  the  tale  and  was  much  in- 
clined to  favor  the  suit  of  one  John  Bold,  a  young  surgeon  of 
her  own  age.  Bold  had  inherited  a  moderate  fortune  from  his 
father,  and  after  settling  in  Barchester  with  his  sister  Mary,  five 
years  his  senior,  and  finding  little  to  do  in  his  profession,  presently 
turned  himself  toward  reforms,  local  and  otherwise.  According- 
ly he  hurled  anathemas  against  various  time-honored  abuses  in 
Barchester  and  was  in  consequence  regarded  by  Archdeacon 
Grantly  as  a  firebrand  of  mischief.  As  his  father  and  the  war- 
den were  fast  friends,  the  Archdeacon  was  unable  to  bring  about 
his  being  debarred  from  the  warden's  house;  and  although  Dr. 
Grantly  perceived  how  matters  stood  between  his  sister-in-law 
and  the  young  reformer,  he  had  not  thought  it  wise  just  yet  to 
remonstrate  with  Mr.  Harding  on  that  point. 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  3 

Renewal  of  the  former  talk  about  the  unjust  division  of  the 
funds  of  Hiram's  Hospital  came  about  not  long  after  Bold's 
return  as  surgeon  to  the  town  where  he  had  lived  in  boyhood, 
and  some  of  the  bedesmen  were  heard  to  say  that  '*  if  everyone 
had  his  own  they  might  each  have  their  hundred  pounds  a  year, 
instead  of  a  beggarly  one  shilling  and  sixpence  a  day";  and  that 
they  had  "small  cause  to  be  thankful  for  a  miserable  dole  of 
twopence  when  Mr.  Harding  and  Mr.  Chadwick  ran  away  with 
thousands  of  pounds  which  old  John  Hiram  never  intended  for 
them."  Bold  had  as  yet  taken  no  direct  steps  toward  investi- 
gation of  the  disposition  of  the  hospital  funds,  but  was  presently 
urged,  by  his  attorney  in  conducting  several  local  reforms,  to 
demand  from  Mr.  Chadwick  a  statement  as  to  the  funds  in  ques- 
tion. He  soon  found  that  interference  with  the  steward  would 
mean  interference  with  the  warden;  but  although  this  would 
bring  about  an  awkward  situation  of  affairs  he  resolved  not  to 
be  influenced  by  personal  motives.  Familiarizing  himself  with 
the  provisions  of  Hiram's  will,  he  ascertained  the  extent  of  the 
hospital  property  and  its  approximate  value,  scheduled  the 
existing  disposal  of  its  income,  and  then  demanded  from  Mr. 
Chadwick  a  statement  of  income  and  expenditure  of  the  hos- 
pital for  the  preceding  twenty-five  years. 

Upon  Mr.  Chadwick's  refusal.  Bold  proceeded  to  the  war- 
den's in  order  to  inform  Mr.  Harding  of  his  belief  that  John 
Hiram's  will  was  not  being  carried  out  to  the  letter,  and  also 
of  his  intention  to  look  into  the  matter.  He  was  adding  that 
he  trusted  his  action  would  not  be  misunderstood,  when  Mr. 
Harding  assured  him  he  should  never  attribute  base  motives 
because  Bold's  views  were  adverse  to  the  interests  of  the  warden, 
but  declined  to  discuss  the  subject  further.  Mr.  Harding  was 
by  no  means  sure  of  his  ground.  Could  it  be  that  Bold  was 
right  and  that  he,  the  warden,  *'  had  been  for  the  past  ten  years 
the  unjust  recipient  of  an  income  legally  belonging  to  others?  " 
From  this  time  Mr.  Harding  was  no  longer  at  ease  in  his  war- 
denship.  He  knew  well  how  strongly  he  would  be  supported  by 
Dr.  Grantly,  if  he  could  bring  himself  to  put  his  case  into  the 
Archdeacon's  hands,  but  he  knew  also  that  he  would  find  no 
sympathy  there  for  his  doubts.  In  his  perplexity  he  consulted 
his  old  friend,  the  Bishop,  from  whom  he  obtained  sympathy 


4  THE  WARDEN 

rather  than  counsel,  since  the  prelate  could  not  prove  to  him 
that  John  Bold  was  wrong.  He  also  informed  the  Bishop  of  the 
possibility  that  the  reformer  might  become  his  son-in-law. 

Mrs.  Grantly  did  not  much  like  Bold,  but  she  was  keen 
enough  to  see  that  her  husband  might  easily  precipitate  adverse 
action  on  the  reformer's  part,  and  since  Eleanor  did  like  him 
and  he  was  well  able  to  support  her,  the  Archdeacon's  wife 
thought  marriage  an  excellent  thing  for  them,  as  ''Bold  would 
never  trouble  himself  about  Hiram's  Hospital  if  he  were  papa's 
son-in-law." 

John  Bold's  attorney,  Finney  by  name,  went  about  among 
the  bedesmen  of  the  hospital,  with  the  result  that,  with  one  of 
their  number,  Abel  Handy,  as  leader,  a  petition  to  the  Bishop 
was  drawn  up  and  signed  by  most  of  them,  praying  him  to  see 
justice  done  to  the  legal  recipients  of  the  charity.  Thereupon 
the  Archdeacon  visited  the  hospital,  informed  the  old  men  of 
their  many  blessings,  dwelt  upon  their  foolishness  in  desir- 
ing any  change  in  their  condition,  and  subsequently,  finding  the 
petition  at  his  father's,  wrote  a  short  reply  embodying  the  same 
sentiments,  which  he  persuaded  the  Bishop  to  sign. 

When  John  Bold  told  his  sister  of  his  intention  to  right  the 
affairs  of  Hiram's  Hospital,  and  in  so  doing  perhaps  injure  Mr. 
Harding,  she  remonstrated  wath  him,  but  without  effect.  Even 
though  he  loved  Eleanor  Harding,  he  would  not  retreat  from 
his  position.  The  warden  in  his  thought  did  full  justice  to 
Bold's  upright  intentions,  and  having  been  assured  of  his 
daughter's  feeling  for  Bold  he  excused  what  he  was  doing; 
praised  him  for  his  energy;  made  much  of  his  good  qualities, 
and  harped  on  none  of  his  foibles. 

The  hospital  matter  was  now  well  before  the  public;  Sir 
Abraham  Haphazard  had  been  consulted  by  the  Archdeacon,  and 
the  injustice  done  to  the  old  bedesmen  had  been  discussed  at 
length  in  the  daily  Jupiter.  All  this  was  very  painful  to  the 
tender-hearted  warden,  who  could  not  see  how  to  convince  the 
Jupiter^ s  readers  that  he  was  "no  avaricious  lazy  priest,  but  a 
humble-spirited  man  who  had  innocently  taken  what  was  offered 
him."  Dr.  Grantly  was  likewise  disturbed  by  the  Jupiter  ar- 
ticle, and  still  more  by  his  wife's  reminders  that  if  he  had  not 
interfered  Eleanor  and  Bold  might  now  have  been  married. 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  5 

in  which  case  the  Jupiter  would  have  known  nothing  about 
Hiram's  Hospital. 

''The  fact  is,  you've  brought  this  young  man  down  upon  papa 
by  huffing  him  as  you  have  done." 

"But,  my  love — " 

"And  all  because  you  didn't  like  John  Bold  for  a  brother- 
in-law.  How  is  she  ever  to  do  better?  Papa  hasn't  got  a  shil- 
ling, and  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  how  she  is  ever  to  do  better  than 
marry  John  Bold,  or  as  well,  indeed." 

The  Archdeacon,  however,  was  restored  to  good  humor  by 
the  opinion  brought  by  Mr.  Chadwick  from  Sir  Abraham  Hap- 
hazard that  there  was  no  case  as  yet  against  the  warden,  and 
that  as  the  action  was  worsted  it  must  fall  to  the  ground.  Victory 
was  what  Dr.  Grantly  desired,  and  the  justice  of  the  old  men's 
claim,  or  that  of  the  warden's  defense,  were  ideas  that  never  had 
presented  themselves  to  Sir  Abraham.  The  next  morning  he 
met  his  father  and  the  warden  at  the  palace  and  announced  to 
them  Sir  Abraham's  opinion  as  he  understood  it.  It  was  easy 
to  persuade  the  Bishop  that  all  was  going  on  well,  but  the 
warden  remained  unconvinced. 

"The  only  thing  we  have  now  to  do  is  to  hold  our  peace  and 
let  them  play  their  own  game  as  they  please.  We  are  in  pos- 
session, and  we  know  they  are  not  in  a  position  to  put  us  out." 

"And  the  JupiterV^  said  the  warden. 

"Oh,  the  JupiterV^  answered  the  other.  "The  Jupiter  can 
break  no  bones." 

But  Mr.  Harding,  described  by  Dr.  Pessimist  Anticant  as 
the  consumer  of  the  bread  of  the  poor,  was  dissatisfied.  Was  he 
to  bear  all  this,  to  receive  his  now  hated  income  and  be  known 
as  one  of  those  greedy  priests  whose  rapacity  brought  disgrace 
on  their  church?  At  last  he  exclaimed  that  he  would  bear  this 
misery  no  longer. 

"  I  am  anxious  to  prove  to  the  world  that  I  have  been  right, 
and  to  uphold  the  place  I  have  held.  But  I  cannot  do  it  at  such 
a  cost  as  this.  I  cannot  bear  it,"  and  he  appealed  to  the  Bishop. 
"/Could  you  tell  me  to  sit  there  at  ease,  indifferent  and  satisfied, 
while  such  things  as  these  are  said  loudly  of  me  in  the  world?" 

The  Bishop  could  only  sympathize  with  him,  but  the  Arch- 
deacon delivered  an  eloquent  speech  concerning  the  situation 


6  THE   WARDEN 

and  the  warden's  duty  to  stand  by  the  Establishment,  the  con- 
clusion of  which  only  plunged  Mr.  Harding  into  deeper  distress. 
That  same  evening  the  warden  confided  all  his  perplexities  to 
Eleanor  and  was  comforted  on  learning  how  readily  she  would 
give  up  their  pleasant  life  in  the  warden's  residence,  should  he 
deem  it  best  to  resign  his  post.  Then  they  spoke  of  Bold,  and 
her  father  declared  that  the  young  man's  course  must  not  prove 
an  obstacle  in  the  way  of  her  love  for  him.  Before  Eleanor 
slept  she  resolved  to  go  to  her  lover  and  beg  of  him  to  give  up 
his  undertaking,  and  the  next  morning  she  went  to  see  Mary 
Bold,  to  explain  to  her  that  after  she  had  begged  this  favor  of  her 
brother  there  could  be  no  further  talk  of  love  between  them. 
Mary  could  not  follow  this  argument  fully,  and  as  they  dis- 
cussed it  John  Bold  came  into  the  room.  In  tears,  she  asked 
him  why  he  had  begun  this  action  against  her  father,  and  de- 
clared she  would  cling  to  him  in  the  very  street  till  he  should 
promise  to  abandon  it.  Thus  taken  at  a  disadvantage,  Bold 
naturally  soon  capitulated  and  gave  the  required  promise. 

But,  the  promise  given,  Mary  so  managed  affairs  that 
Eleanor  had  no  opportunity  to  carry  out  her  plan  of  sacrifice  as 
outlined  to  Mary,  and  before  she  knew  it  all  her  defenses  were 
swept  away,  her  love  for  John  Bold  acknowledged,  and  so  the 
altar  on  the  shore  of  the  modern  Aulis  reeked  with  no  sacrifice. 

Bold  fully  realized  that  retreat  from  his  former  position 
would  be  difficult,  but  nevertheless,  in  fulfilment  of  his  promise, 
he  called  on  the  Archdeacon  as  the  first  step,  in  order  to  inform 
him  that  the  proceedings  in  regard  to  the  wardenship  were  to 
be  abandoned.  It  was  an  unpleasant  interview,  leaving  Bold 
firmly  convinced  that  if  there  were  a  real  devil  on  earth  it  was 
Dr.  Grantly. 

Eleanor,  meanwhile,  had  informed  her  father  that  the  law- 
suit was  to  be  abandoned,  and  supposed  the  matter  was  now 
settled;  but  the  warden  declared  that  Mr.  Bold's  action  would 
not  affect  his  own  purpose.  He  called  her  attention  to  another 
article  in  the  Jupiter ,  in  which  the  warden  was  even  more  severely 
dealt  with  than  before,  and  announced  his  intention  to  see  his 
lawyers  and,  if  no  more  honest  plea  could  be  made  for  him  than 
had  yet  been  made,  he  should  resign  the  wardenship.  In  order 
to  escape  the  Archdeacon's  remonstrances,  he  set  out  for  London 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  7 

before  the  written  announcement  of  his  intentions  could  reach 
his  son-in-law,  and  spent  a  long  day  in  waiting  at  his  hotel  and 
elsewhere  till  he  could  secure  an  interview  with  Sir  Abraham. 
In  the  course  of  the  interview  he  inquired  of  the  lawyer  whether 
he,  as  warden,  were  legally  and  distinctly  entitled  to  the  proceeds 
of  the  property,  after  the  maintenance  of  the  twelve  bedesmen. 

Sir  Abraham  declared  that  he  couldn't  exactly  say  in  so  many 
words  that  Mr.  Harding  was  legally  entitled  to,  etc.,  and  ended 
in  expressing  a  strong  opinion  that  it  would  be  madness  to  raise 
any  further  question  on  the  matter,  as  the  suit  was  abandoned. 

On  this,  Mr.  Harding  announced  his  intention  to  resign  the 
wardcnship,  greatly  to  the  surprise  of  the  lawyer,  who  remon- 
strated against  such  a  proceeding  in  vain.  Mr.  Harding  re- 
sponded : 

"It  may  seem  strange  to  you,  it  is  strange  to  myself,  that  I 
should  have  been  ten  years  in  that  happy  home,  and  not  have 
thought  of  these  things  till  they  were  so  roughly  dinned  into  my 
ears.  I  cannot  boast  of  a  conscience,  when  it  required  the  vio- 
lence of  a  newspaper  to  awaken  it;  but,  now  that  it  is  awake,  I 
must  obey  it.  From  to-morrow  I  shall  cease  to  be  the  warden 
of  the  hospital." 

Returning  to  his  hotel  he  found  the  Archdeacon  and  Mrs. 
Grantly  awaiting  him,  and  to  them  he  told  what  he  had  done,  to 
their  intense  horror.  The  Archdeacon  endeavored  to  persuade 
him  that  since  the  resignation  had  not  yet  taken  effect  it  really 
amounted  to  nothing.  The  warden  knew  his  own  weakness; 
how  prone  he  was  to  be  led;  but  he  was  not  weak  enough  to  give 
way  now,  to  go  back  from  the  position  to  which  his  conscience 
had  driven  him,  after  he  had  purposely  come  to  London  to  de- 
clare his  determination.  The  Archdeacon  wished  to  know  in 
what  way  his  father-in-law  purposed  to  live,  and  Mr.  Harding 
said  he  would  still  have  the  living  of  Crabtree  Parva  and  the 
precentorship.  The  Archdeacon  prophesied  ruin,  but  Mr.  Hard- 
ing remained  timidly  firm,  and  as  he  closed  the  door  on  his  way 
up  to  bed  he  heard  the  well-known  ejaculation,  slower,  lower, 
more  solemn,  more  ponderous  than  ever:  "  Good  heavens!" 

Before  leaving  London  the  next  morning  Mr.  Harding  wrote 
to  the  Bishop,  tendering  his  resignation.  The  Archdeacon  had 
now  gone  to  consult  his  lawyers,  and  the  warden  seized  the  op- 


8  THE  WARDEN 

portunity  his  absence  afforded,  although  his  daughter  begged 
him  to  put  the  matter  off  a  day  or  two,  to  which  he  replied  that 
if  he  waited  till  he  got  to  Barchester  he  might  be  prevented. 
Mrs.  Grantly  perceived  that  further  urging  would  be  useless, 
and  Mr.  Harding  returned  in  triumph  to  Barchester,  for  had  he 
not  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  held  his  own  purpose  against  that 
of  his  son-in-law? 

The  Bishop  did  not  try  to  dissuade  his  friend,  but  was  quite 
sure  that  the  precentorship  was  not  necessarily  associated  with 
the  wardenship,  and  it  was  soon  settled  that  Mr.  Harding  should 
retain  the  first-named  place.  The  various  kindly  offers  of  the 
Bishop  as  to  a  private  chaplaincy,  etc.,  Mr.  Harding  declined, 
and  with  his  daughter  Eleanor  he  went  into  lodgings  in  Bar- 
chester till  the  vicarage  at  Crabtree  Parva  should  be  in  readiness 
for  them.  There  was  a  sad  parting  with  the  old  bedesmen  at 
the  hospital,  and  after  the  flitting  the  Archdeacon  was  desirous 
of  putting  some  candidate  of  his  own  in  the  vacant  place,  but 
was  astonished  on  learning  that  the  Bishop  would  not  name  a 
successor  to  Mr.  Harding. 

*'If  we  can  get  the  matter  set  to  rights,  Mr.  Harding  will 
return,"  said  the  Bishop,  "  and  if  we  cannot  it  will  be  a  wrong  to 
put  any  other  gentleman  into  so  cruel  a  position." 

Mr.  Harding  did  not  go  to  Crabtree  Parva  after  all,  but  an 
arrangement  was  made  by  which  he  was  made  rector  of  the 
church  of  St.  Cuthbert  in  Barchester,  a  tiny  parish  embracing 
a  part  of  the  cathedral  close.  Three  months  later  Eleanor 
Harding  and  John  Bold  were  married,  and  although  the  Arch- 
deacon would  not  grace  the  occasion  by  his  presence,  six  months 
later  he  consented  to  meet  Bold  at  a  dinner-party  and  in  time 
they  became  almost  friends,  abstaining,  however,  from  any  dis- 
cussion of  the  hospital  feud.  Mr.  Harding  spent  his  time 
largely  with  his  daughter  Eleanor  and  his  friend  the  Bishop  at 
the  palace,  where  he  dined  frequently,  and  seldom  at  his  lodg- 
ings, and  in  the  process  of  a  twelvemonth  consented  to  have  his 
beloved  violoncello  permanently  removed  to  the  home  of  the 
Bolds.  And  although  his  connection  with  Hiram's  Hospital 
had  been  severed,  he  was  still  commonly  addressed  as  ^*Mr. 
Warden,"  to  which  he  invariably  replied,  "Not  warden  now^ 
only  precentor." 


BARCHESTER  TOWERS  (1857) 

This  story,  the  second  of  the  Barsetshire  tales,  was  written  for  the  most 
part  while  Anthony  Trollope  was  traveling  about  the  country  in  railway  carriages 
in  the  pursuit  of  his  duties  as  a  post-ofi5ce  surveyor.  It  was  the  author's  custom 
to  write  rapidly  in  pencil,  and  what  was  thus  done  his  wife  afterward  copied. 
It  was  issued  on  the  half-profit  system  by  the  Messrs.  Longmans,  with  a  payment 
in  advance,  out  of  the  half  profits,  of  one  hundred  pounds.  Writing  his  Auto- 
biography in  the  spring  of  1876,  he  computed  that  up  to  that  time  his  pecuniary 
returns  from  The  Warden  and  Barchester  Towers  together  had  amounted  to 
727  pounds  eleven  shillings  and  threepence.  Winchester  (under  the  name  of 
Barchester)  and  its  neighborhood  form  the  locale  of  the  story,  and  in  the  nine- 
teenth chapter,  and  again  in  the  thirty-first,  will  be  found  descriptions  of  actual 
localities  in  the  ancient  Hampshire  capital.  The  action  of  the  novel  is  dis- 
tributed over  a  period  of  about  eighteen  months,  and  that  of  The  Warden  and 
Barchester  Towers  together,  which  in  efifect  form  a  continuous  narrative,  is  a  little 
more  than  five  years. 


pR  several  months  prior  to  the  death  of  Dr. 
Grantly,the  aged  Bishop  of  Barchester,  it  was  gen- 
erally supposed  that  his  son,  Archdeacon  Grantly, 
would  succeed  him  in  the  episcopal  office,  the 
Prime  Minister,  it  was  understood,  having  made 
his  selection.  But  the  ministry  was  then  about 
to  undergo  a  change  from  Conservative  to  Liberal, 
and  as  it  so  chanced  the  Conservative  ministry 
went  out  almost  at  the  very  moment  of  the  Bish- 
op's death,  and  the  Archdeacon's  hopes  were  over.  The  Jupiter 
soon  announced  that  Dr.  Proudie  was  to  fill  the  vacant  epis- 
copal throne,  and  a  month  later  he  was  consecrated  Bishop  of 
Barchester.  Mr.  Harding,  the  father-in-law  of  the  Archdeacon, 
had  formerly  been  warden  of  Hiram's  Hospital  in  Barchester, 
which  post  he  had  resigned  some  years  previously,  and  he  was 
now  precentor  of  the  cathedral.  Since  giving  up  the  wardenship 
Mr.  Harding  had  spent  much  time  with  his  dear  friend,  the  late 
Bishop,  and  with  his  daughter  Eleanor,  the  widow  of  John  Bold, 
who  had  died  in  the  early  days  of  their  marriage,  leaving  her  in 
prosperous  circumstances. 

9 


lo  BARCHESTER   TOWERS 

The  new  Bishop  was  an  ambitious  but  not  especially  forceful 
man,  and  he  speedily  resolved  to  live  in  London  for  a  part  of  the 
year  at  least,  a  decision  unlikely  to  render  him  popular  with  the 
clergy  and  laity  of  Barchester.  Mrs.  Proudie  was  both  am- 
bitious and  forceful  and  a  Sabbatarian  of  the  most  rigid  char- 
acter. She  had  long  since  reduced  her  husband  to  a  state  of 
vassalage,  and  although  habitually  authoritative  to  all,  to  that 
gentleman  she  was  despotic.  Her  favorite  preacher,  Mr.  Slope, 
became  the  Bishop's  domestic  chaplain,  and  as  she  often  al- 
lowed herself  to  be  guided  by  that  eloquent  preacher  it  followed 
naturally  that  Mr.  Slope  acquired  a  good  deal  of  control  over  the 
Bishop  in  religious  matters.  He  had  once  declared  his  affection 
for  Miss  Olivia  Proudie,  but,  on  finding  that  her  father  would 
have  no  funds  to  give  with  her,  withdrew  his  proposal.  His 
views  altered  when  Dr.  Proudie  became  a  bishop;  but  Olivia 
was  a  girl  of  spirit  and  gave  him  no  encouragement.  For  obvi- 
ous reasons  Mrs.  Proudie  never  was  informed  of  these  facts. 
Mr.  Slope  possessed  ability,  and  his  unctuous  eloquence  was  at 
least  successful  with  women,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  his  pres- 
ence was  not  attractive.  When  the  Archdeacon  and  the  pre- 
centor called  at  the  palace  they  not  only  found  the  Bishop  and 
his  chaplain,  but  also  found  Mrs.  Proudie,  an  innovation  for 
which  precedent  might  in  vain  be  sought  in  all  the  annals  of  the 
Barchester  bishopric !  There  she  was,  however,  and  they  could 
only  make  the  best  of  her.  There  were  four  of  the  five  present, 
each  of  whom  considered  himself  the  most  important  personage 
in  the  diocese;  himself,  indeed,  or  herself,  as  Mrs.  Proudie  was 
one  of  them;  and  with  such  a  difference  of  opinion  it  was  not 
probable  that  they  would  get  on  pleasantly  together.  The 
Bishop  himself  actually  wore  the  visible  apron,  and  trusted 
mainly  to  that — and  his  title.  The  Archdeacon  really  under- 
stood the  business  of  bishoping,  which  the  others  did  not,  and 
this  was  his  strong  ground.  M[rs.  Proudie  had  her  sex  to  back 
her,  and  her  habit  of  command;  and  Mr.  Slope  was  perfectly  as- 
sured that  he  should  soon  get  the  better  of  Bishop  and  Arch- 
deacon. The  interview,  in  the  course  of  which  Mrs.  Proudie 
lectured  the  visitors  in  regard  to  Sunday  observances,  made  it 
quite  clear  to  all  present  that  very  little  harmony  need  be  ex- 
pected between  the  Barchester  clergy  and  their  diocesan. 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  ii 

All  Barchcstcr  attended  when  the  new  Bishop  sat  for  the 
first  time  in  the  cathedral,  and  the  musical  service,  always 
especially  well  performed  at  Barchester,  was  sung  with  more 
than  usual  fervor,  after  which  Mr.  Slope  delivered  a  strong  ser- 
mon directly  attacking  such  a  service,  which  filled  the  Bishop 
with  horror  and  the  dean  and  chapter  with  wrath.  Mrs.  Proudie, 
however,  commended  the  sermon  loudly  in  the  presence  of  the 
Bishop,  who  dared  say  very  little  in  opposition,  and  both  soon 
left  for  London,  not  to  return  till  the  London  season  should  be 
over.  The  chaplain  did  not  preach  again  in  the  cathedral,  but 
contented  himself  with  giving  dean  and  chapter  annoying  inti- 
mations of  the  Bishop's  wishes  regarding  this  or  that. 

Among  the  cathedral  clergy  was  Dr.  Vesey  Stanhope,  who 
had  been  an  absentee  in  Italy  a  dozen  years,  but  who  was 
now  summoned  home  by  Mr.  Slope  at  the  Bishop's  desire.  He 
had  much  to  forgive  in  his  own  family,  and  had  forgiven  every- 
thing, except  inattention  to  his  dinner.  His  daughter  Char- 
lotte, a  capable  woman  of  thirty-five,  managed  his  household, 
his  other  children  being  Madeline,  a  great  beauty  who  had 
married  Paulo  Neroni,  the  worst  of  her  many  suitors;  and  Ethel- 
bert,  an  agreeable,  irresponsible  idler  with  some  ability  as  an 
artist.  Signora  Neroni  had  returned  to  her  father's  house  a 
cripple  and  a  mother,  but  Neroni  was  seen  no  more.  She  called 
herself  ''La  Signora  Madeline  Vesey  Neroni,"  and  still  fre- 
quented society,  but  was  always  seen  lying  on  a  sofa  on  account 
of  her  deformity.  Talented  and  unprincipled,  she  was  a  bas- 
ilisk from  whom  an  ardent  lover  of  beauty  could  make  no  es- 
cape. Ethelbert  was  much  addicted  to  making  love,  but  while 
his  principles  forbade  him  to  be  attentive  to  a  girl  in  the  pres- 
ence of  any  man  whom  it  might  suit  her  to  marry,  he  had  no 
other  motive  in  abstaining  from  the  fullest  declarations  of  love 
to  every  girl  that  pleased  his  eye. 

On  the  return  of  the  Proudies  to  Barchester  they  issued  cards 
for  a  large  party  at  the  palace,  which  the  cathedral  clergy  felt 
bound  to  attend,  however  they  might  dislike  the  Bishop  and  his 
feminine  coadjutor.  The  Signora,  too,  resolved  to  be  there, 
much  to  her  father's  displeasure,  because  he  knew  she  would 
practise  her  accustomed  lures.  Dressed  in  white  velvet  and 
pearls,  and  reclining  on  a  crimson  sofa,  she  furnished  the  sen- 


12  BARCHESTER  TOWERS 

sation  of  the  evening,  it  being  impossible  not  to  observe  her  bold 
beauty.  By  accident  the  sofa-leg  caught  in  Mrs.  Proudie's  lace 
train,  and  Ethelbert  knelt  to  disentangle  it. 

'* Unhand  it,  sir!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Proudie  in  anger. 

The  Signora  laughed  softly,  and  as  the  tigress  bereft  of  her 
young  will  turn  with  equal  anger  on  any  within  reach,  so  did 
Mrs.  Proudie  turn  upon  her  female  guest. 

"Madam!"  she  said — and  it  is  beyond  the  power  of  prose 
to  tell  of  the  fire  which  flashed  from  her  eyes. 

During  the  evening  the  Signora  made  conquests  more  or  less 
complete  of  the  various  men  who  came  near  her,  including  the 
Bishop,  to  whom  she  spoke  of  her  daughter  as  "the  last  of  the 
Neros,"  and  Mr.  Slope,  who  incurred  the  wrath  of  his  episcopal 
patroness  thereby. 

Ere  the  Proudies'  return  the  chaplain  had  called  on  Mrs. 
Bold,  expressing  his  admiration  of  her  father  and  regrets  for 
having  in  his  sermon  offended  Mr.  Harding,  and  thus  gained  her 
good  opinion  so  far  as  to  lead  her  to  say  at  another  time  to  her 
father  that  she  thought  he  was  not  quite  just  to  Mr.  Slope. 

A  few  days  after  the  party  Mr.  Harding  was  summoned  to 
the  palace,  where  Mr.  Slope  announced  that  the  wardenship  of 
Hiram's  Hospital  would  be  filled,  and  that  the  Bishop  was 
desirous  that  Mr.  Harding  should  return  to  his  former  post. 
So  many  annoying  conditions  were  attached  to  the  offer,  however, 
that  Mr.  Harding  declined  to  accept  if  those  were  to  be  insisted 
upon.  Mr.  Slope  accordingly  represented  to  the  Bishop  that 
there  had  been  an  absolute  refusal,  and  Mrs.  Proudie  thereupon 
decided  that  the  post  should  be  offered  to  Mr.  Quiverful,  who 
would  "make  himself  much  more  useful  in  the  close  neighbor- 
hood of  the  palace." 

The  day  before  this  interview  the  chaplain  had  called  on 
Mrs.  Bold,  unable  to  deny  himself,  as  he  explained,  the  pleasure 
of  telling  her  that  her  father  was  probably  about  to  return  to  his 
old  home  at  the  hospital,  and  to  speak  of  the  school  he  hoped 
would  soon  be  attached  to  it.  She  was  so  full  of  what  she  had 
heard  that  when  her  father  visited  her  after  the  interview  neither 
quite  understood  the  other,  and  he  was  rendered  very  unhappy 
by  the  later  suggestion  of  his  other  daughter,  Mrs.  Grantly,  that 
Eleanor  might  marry  Mr.  Slope.     Although  Mrs.   Bold  had 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  13 

overcome  all  her  first  repugnance  to  Mr.  Slope,  she  had  not  the 
slightest  thought  of  marrying  him  or  of  his  wishing  to  marry 
her;  but  the  Grantlys,  who  were  very  indignant  at  the  idea  of 
such  a  match,  were  unaware  that  her  offense  merely  amounted 
to  having  spoken  to  Mr.  Slope  a  few  times  and  promised  to 
teach  in  his  Sunday-school.  It  was  only  by  chance,  in  his  em- 
bassy to  Mr.  Quiverful,  that  the  chaplain  learned  how  pecuni- 
arily well  worth  wooing  Mrs.  Bold  might  be.  As  Mr.  Slope 
rode  back  to  Barchester  he  turned  over  many  things  in  his  mind 
and  decided  that  he  would  at  once  ascertain  the  truth  of  what 
he  had  heard  and  be  governed  by  what  he  should  then  learn  in 
the  ensuing  complications  regarding  the  Signora,  Mrs.  Proudie, 
Mr.  Harding,  and  Mr.  Quiverful. 

While  Mr.  Slope  was  conversing  with  Mr.  Quiverful,  Char- 
lotte Stanhope  was  urging  her  brother  to  marry  Mrs.  Bold,  a 
proposal  not  entirely  disagreeable  to  him,  and  between  them  the 
Stanhopes  settled  that  this  should  be.  Mr.  Slope's  inquiries 
proving  satisfactory,  he  explained  to  the  Bishop  that  it  would  be 
unwise  to  exclude  Mr.  Harding  from  the  hospital  wardenship; 
but  his  task  was  the  more  difficult  because  Mrs.  Proudie  had 
already  written  to  Mrs.  Quiverful  and  thus  committed  herself. 

The  Bishop  was  now  left  in  a  very  unsettled  state,  but  in- 
clining toward  the  Harding  appointment  because  he  would  then 
have  his  chaplain's  aid  in  opposing  Mrs.  Proudie.  But  he  knew 
that  Mr.  Quiverful  could  not  be  thrown  over  without  informing 
Mrs.  Proudie,  and  in  the  subsequent  terrible  encounter  with  his 
feminine  coadjutor  the  Bishop  was  worsted  and  Mr.  Slope,  re- 
turning to  the  palace  after  some  hours'  absence,  learned  that 
Mrs.  Proudie's  behests  in  the  matter  of  the  hospital  were  to  be 
obeyed. 

The  Archdeacon,  having  sent  word  that  he  wished  to  see  the 
Bishop,  ascertained  at  the  palace  portals  that  his  diocesan  was 
ill,  but  that  Mr.  Slope  would  see  him.  Too  angry  to  consent  to 
this  substitution,  the  Archdeacon  turned  away  and,  finding  his 
father-in-law  at  Mrs.  Bold's,  there  gave  vent  to  his  contempt  for 
Mr.  Slope.  When  Eleanor  expressed  the  opinion  that  it  might 
have  been  well  for  him  to  see  the  chaplain,  a  warm  dispute  be- 
tween the  two  ensued,  ended  by  Eleanor's  leaving  the  room. 

Mr.  Harding  now  saw  that  the  Archdeacon  had  made  up  his 


14  BARCHESTER   TOWERS 

mind  that  Mr.  Slope  would  marry  Mrs.  Bold,  and  the  precentor 
admitted  to  himself  that  certain  things  pointed  that  way.  Not 
long  after  this  Mrs.  Bold  spent  an  evening  with  the  Stanhopes, 
where  she  saw  the  chaplain,  somewhat  to  the  disconcertment  of 
Mr.  Slope,  who  had  expected  to  gaze  on  Madame  Neroni  and 
felt  that  such  gazing  would  not  much  advance  his  suit  with 
the  Widow  Bold.  Charlotte  did  all  she  could  to  further  her 
brother^s  interests  with  Mrs.  Bold,  and  as  he  was  amusing,  yet 
respectful,  she  thought  him  most  agreeable. 

The  Reverend  Francis  Arabin  had  recently  become  rector  of 
St.  Ewold^s,  near  Barchester,  and  while  visiting  at  the  Grant- 
lys'  home  at  Plumstead  Episcopi  in  East  Barsetshire,  he  met 
Mrs.  Bold,  in  whom  he  presently  took  a  friendly  interest  that  in 
time  became  something  stronger  ere  he  was  aware.  The  Plum- 
stead  party  dined  at  the  Stanhopes'  on  one  occasion  and  Mr. 
Arabin  moth-like  burned  his  wings  in  the  flames  of  the  Signora's 
candle.  Mrs.  Bold  thought  he  showed  a  want  of  taste  in  paying 
so  much  attention  to  Madame  Neroni,  and  was  displeased  at  his 
subsequent  praise  of  that  person,  although  she  herself  had  en- 
joyed the  attentions  of  the  Signora's  brother.  She  was  not  in 
love  with  Mr.  Arabin,  but  she  had  by  this  time  enjoyed  at  Plum- 
stead  three  weeks  of  his  society,  which  was  not  unpleasant  to 
her,  and  now  at  the  Stanhopes'  he  devoted  himself  entirely  to 
another.  Neither  was  the  vicar  of  St.  Ewold's  consciously  in 
love  with  her,  and  her  widow's  cap  had  as  yet  hindered  Bertie 
Stanhope  from  making  a  positive  declaration. 

The  Harding  and  Quiverful  complication  was  at  this  time 
occupying  the  minds  of  many.  In  spite  of  the  Bishop  and  Mrs. 
Proudie,  the  chaplain  was  determined  to  place  Mr.  Harding  in 
the  wardenship  in  order  to  further  his  suit  with  Mrs.  Bold,  and 
to  carry  his  point  he  again  interviewed  Mr.  Quiverful,  the  out- 
come of  which  meeting  was  the  poor  vicar's  abandonment  of 
any  claims  to  the  wardenship.  Mrs.  Quiverful,  mindful  of  the 
needs  of  a  family  of  fourteen  children,  thereupon  set  off  for 
Barchester,  saw  Mrs.  Proudie,  and  explained  the  situation. 
Angrily  entering  her  husband's  study,  Mrs.  Proudie  engaged 
in  battle  with  the  Bishop  and  his  chaplain.  At  first  the  Bishop 
remained  silent  while  the  combat  raged  about  him,  reaching  its 
climax  when  Mrs.  Proudie  requested  Mr.  Slope  to  withdraw 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  15 

that  she  might  speak  to  her  husband  alone.  Mr.  Slope  not 
obeying,  the  Bishop  was  called  on  to  enforce  the  order,  but  for 
a  moment  was  silent. 

"My  lord,"  said  the  lady,  "is  Mr.  Slope  to  leave  this  room 
or  am  I?" 

Mrs.  Proudie  was  boiling  over  with  wrath.  Divine  angejr 
got  the  better  of  her,  as  of  other  heroines,  and  she  fell. 

"My  lord,  am  I  to  be  vouchsafed  an  answer  or  am  I  not?" 

"Why,  my  dear,"  said  he,  "Mr.  Slope  and  I  are  very  busy." 

That  was  all.  He  had  gone  to  the  battlefield,  endured  the 
dust  and  heat  of  the  day,  and  won  the  victory. 

Mrs.  Proudie,  after  slamming  the  door,  descended  to  Mrs. 
Quiverful,  intending  to  vent  her  displeasure  on  that  innocent 
victim;  but  the  real  distress  of  the  poor  vicaress  softened  her, 
and  she  said  the  appointment  should  be  insisted  on.  As  she 
repeated  the  word  "insisted,"  she  thought  of  the  Bishop  in  his 
nightcap,  and  with  compressed  lips  slightly  shook  her  head. 

Mr.  Slope,  after  writing  a  confidential  letter  to  Mrs.  Bold  on 
the  subject  of  the  wardenship,  next  called  on  the  Signora,  who 
in  the  midst  of  his  ardent  love-making  reminded  him  that  he 
had  forgotten  the  existence  of  a  Signor  Neroni,  and  also  asked 
maliciously  whether  he  were  not  going  to  marry  Mrs.  Bold. 
His  letter  to  Mrs.  Bold  was  sent  after  her  to  Plumstead,  and  its 
reception  created  new  dissension  between  herself  and  the  Arch- 
deacon, who  whispered  some  of  his  annoyance  to  Mr.  Arabin. 
Eleanor  did  not  in  her  heart  admire  Mr.  Slope,  but  she  resented 
the  action  of  the  Grantlys  and  was  angrier  than  ever  when  the 
Archdeacon  declared  that  he  had  spoken  about  the  matter  to  Mr. 
Arabin,  who  agreed  with  him. 

"Agrees  with  what?"  said  she. 

"Agrees  with  me  and  Susan  that  it  is  quite  impossible  that 
you  should  be  received  at  Plumstead  as  Mrs.  Slope." 

As  Eleanor  had  no  thought  of  Mr.  Slope  as  her  future  hus- 
band, all  this  was  very  painful  to  her.  The  thought  that  she 
might  become  Mrs.  Slope  troubled  Mr.  Arabin  likewise,  and 
when  he  felt  moved  to  ask  whether  she  loved  Mr.  Slope  and 
meant  to  be  his  wife  she  refused  to  answer,  although  she  knew 
the  speaker  loved  her  and  was  pleased  at  the  knowledge. 

Dr.  Trefoil,  the  Dean,  now  falling  mortally  ill,  the  ques- 


i6  BARCHESTER  TOWERS 

tion  of  his  successor  was  much  discussed  and  the  suggestion  that 
Mr.  Slope  might  chance  to  be  appointed  to  the  deanery  created 
dire  dismay  among  the  Barsetshire  clergy.  The  chaplain  him- 
self suggested  it  to  the  Bishop,  who  promised  to  consult  the 
Archbishop  about  it,  and  in  return  Mr.  Slope  yielded  in  the 
matter  of  Mr.  Quiverful  and  the  wardenship.  But  the  Bishop 
had  a  dreadful  hour  with  Mrs.  Proudie  when  she  heard  that 
her  husband  had  promised  to  clear  Mr.  Slope's  path  to  the 
deanery. 

While  the  Dean  still  lingered,  Eleanor  saw  much  of  the 
Stanhopes  in  innocent,  friendly  fashion  and  in  accordance  with 
Charlotte's  plans.  She  accompanied  them  to  a  large  garden- 
party  given  by  the  Thornes  of  UUathorne  Court,  but  was  not 
pleased  that  the  Signora  had  asked  Mr.  Slope  to  go  with  them. 

At  UUathorne  the  Signora  exercised  her  arts  over  Mr.  Ara- 
bin,  inquiring  why  he  should  let  the  Slopes  of  this  world  distance 
him,  and  whether  he  did  not  admire  Mrs.  Bold.  But  she  soon 
saw  that  she  could  not  make  a  fool  of  him  as  of  Mr.  Slope  and 
Squire  Thorne,  and  with  unwonted  good  nature  resolved  to 
do  him  a  good  turn.  Bertie  was  to  have  the  first  chance  with 
Eleanor,  but  she  did  not  think  he  would  succeed,  for  she  fancied 
Mr.  Slope  stood  a  better  chance,  and  it  would  be  amusing  to 
thwart  him.  So  the  Signora  resolved,  should  Bertie  fail,  to  give 
up  Mr.  Arabin  to  the  woman  he  loved. 

As  it  fell  out,  Mr.  Slope  found  opportunity  to  offer  himself 
to  Eleanor  at  the  garden-party  and,  inspired  by  the  champagne 
he  had  taken,  attempted  some  outward  demonstration  of  his 
affection,  in  response  to  which  she  promptly  boxed  his  ears  and 
fled.  Meeting  Charlotte  Stanhope,  she  confided  to  her  what 
had  happened,  and  Charlotte  thought  to  herself  that  the  affair 
might  be  turned  to  her  brother's  advantage.  But  Bertie  had 
no  especial  liking  for  the  duty  put  before  him,  and  when  Char- 
lotte had  brought  the  two  together  he  confided  the  whole  scheme 
to  Eleanor,  who  when  she  found  that  her  dear  friend  Charlotte 
desired  to  sacrifice  her  for  the  Stanhope  welfare,  and  that  Bertie 
owned  he  did  not  care  to  pay  his  debts  at  so  great  a  sacrifice  of 
himself,  was  very  angry.  Still  he  was  so  good-natured  that  she 
was  not  half  as  indignant  with  him  as  with  others. 

Dean  Trefoil  died  on  the  day  of  the  party,  and  the  Jupiter 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  17 

supported  Mr.  Slope  for  the  vacant  post.  For  an  entire  week 
Barchester  did  not  know  who  was  to  be  the  new  Dean,  but  Mr. 
Harding  finally  received  the  appointment.  The  Archdeacon 
was  delighted  at  the  news,  but  indignant  when  his  father-in-law 
said  he  should  decline  it,  declaring  himself  unfit  for  decanal 
duties. 

In  the  mean  time  the  Signora  had  made  game  of  Mr.  Slope 
in  the  presence  of  Air.  Arabin,  Squire  Thorne,  and  other  men, 
and  the  Archdeacon  had  been  much  crestfallen  over  the  rumor 
that  his  paragon  of  excellence,  Mr.  Arabin,  had  succumbed  to 
the  siren  fascinations  of  the  Signora.  The  rumor  reached  Miss 
Thorne  also,  at  Ullathorne  Court,  and  she  resolved  to  find  a 
wife  for  the  Vicar  of  St.  Ewold's.  The  Signora  was  of  the 
same  mind,  and  despatched  a  request  that  Mrs.  Bold  would  call 
upon  her  at  a  certain  hour,  a  request  which  Eleanor  obeyed  with 
hesitation.  When  the  two  were  alone  Madeline  said  that  Mr. 
Arabin  adored  her  visitor  with  his  whole  soul. 

"  He  told  me  his  secret  in  a  thousand  ways,  because  he  could 
not  dissemble ;  but  he  does  not  dream  that  he  has  told  it.  You 
know  it  now,  and  I  advise  you  to  use  it.  If  ever  you  are  a  happy 
wife  in  that  man's  house  we  shall  be  far  away;  but  I  shall  ex- 
pect you  to  write  me  one  line  to  say  that  you  have  forgiven  the 
sins  of  the  family." 

Miss  Thome's  method  was  less  direct  than  the  Signora' s, 
but,  perhaps  because  of  the  Signora' s  earlier  efforts,  none  the 
less  effectual.  She  invited  Eleanor  to  visit  at  Ullathorne  Court, 
and  also  Mr.  Arabin,  who  was  to  arrive  on  the  day  following. 
He  came  early,  and  after  dinner  Mrs.  Bold  informed  her  hostess 
that  she  was  engaged  to  Mr.  Arabin,  and  that  she  must  return 
to  Barchester  at  once.  Miss  Thorne  had  planned  for  a  more 
leisurely  wooing  under  her  auspices,  and  was  momentarily  dis- 
concerted by  the  swiftness  of  the  present  one. 

The  Grantlys  now  felt  they  had  done  injustice  in  their 
thought  to  both  parties,  and  Mr.  Harding,  who  renounced  the 
deanery  for  himself,  conceived  the  idea  that  Mr.  Arabin  was 
just  the  man  for  the  office.  The  Archdeacon,  knowing  that 
nothing  would  induce  his  mild,  conscientious  father-in-law  to 
accept  the  office  if  he  thought  it  wrong  to  do  so,  fell  in  with  this 
idea,  and  in  due  season  the  matter  was  arranged  with  the  ap- 
A.D.,  VOL.  xvn. — 2 


i8  BARCHESTER  TOWERS 

pointing  powers  and  Mr.  Arabin  became  Dean  of  Barchester. 
He  insisted,  however,  that  Mr.  Harding  should  live  with  them 
at  the  deanery,  and  to  this  the  other  consented.  Mr.  Hard- 
ing himself  introduced  the  new  warden  of  the  hospital,  Mr. 
Quiverful,  to  his  charges,  and  soon  after  this  event  came  the 
Arabin  wedding,  on  which  occasion  the  joyful  Archdeacon  made 
presents  to  nearly  everyone.  The  titular  Bishop  never  inter- 
fered with  the  Dean  and  Chapter,  and  Mrs.  Proudie,  who  had 
learned  wisdom  from  Mr.  Slope's  failures  in  that  direction,  but 
seldom. 

When  Mr.  Slope  learned  of  the  disposal  of  the  deanery  he  at 
once  made  plans  for  quitting  Barchester,  and  having  received  a 
formal  summons  to  the  palace  at  his  own  convenience  waited  on 
the  Bishop.  He  found,  as  he  expected,  Mrs.  Proudie  with  her 
husband.  Understanding  that  the  prelate  wished  to  speak  to 
him  on  a  matter  affecting  the  chaplain  himself,  he  made  an  in- 
effectual endeavor  to  secure  Mrs.  Proudie's  withdrawal  from  the 
room,  and  when  the  Bishop  began  to  take  him  to  task  he  de- 
manded boldly  to  know  what  he  had  done  amiss. 

"What  have  you  done  amiss,  Mr.  Slope?"  said  Mrs.  Proudie, 
standing  before  the  culprit,  and  raising  that  terrible  foreJSnger. 
"Do  you  dare  to  ask  the  Bishop  what  you  have  done  amiss? 
Does  not  your  conscience — '' 

"  Mrs.  Proudie,  pray  let  it  be  understood  that  I  will  have  no 
words  with  you." 

"Ah,  sir,  but  you  will  have  words,  you  must  have  words. 
Why  have  you  had  so  many  words  with  that  Signora  Neroni? 
Why  have  you  disgraced  yourself,  you  a  clergyman  too,  by  con- 
stantly consorting  with  a  married  woman — one  altogether  unfit 
for  a  clergyman's  society?" 

"I  was  introduced  to  her  in  your  drawing-room,"  retorted 
Mr.  Slope. 

"And  shamefully  you  behaved  there,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 
"I  should  have  insisted  on  your  instant  dismissal.  You  will 
have  the  goodness  to  understand  that  you  no  longer  fill  any 
situation  about  the  Bishop,  and  I  ask  you  to  provide  yourself 
with  apartments  as  soon  as  may  be  convenient." 

On  Mr.  Slope's  asking  the  Bishop  to  let  him  know  his 
own  decision  in  the  matter,  the  Bishop  replied  that  it  was  to 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  19 

the  effect  that  Mr.  Slope  had  best  seek  for  some  other  pre- 
ferment. 

*'And  what,  my  lord,  is  my  fault?" 

**That  Signora  Neroni  is  one  fault,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"  My  lord,  I  desire  to  know  for  what  fault  I  am  turned  out 
of  your  lordship's  house." 

"You  hear  what  Mrs.  Proudie  says,"  said  the  Bishop. 

The  chaplain  now  threatened  to  publish  an  account  of  this 
transaction,  upon  which  Mrs.  Proudie  declared  he  would  not 
be  so  insane. 

**I  advise  you  to  beware,  Mr.  Slope,  of  what  you  dp  and 
say.  Clergymen  have  been  unfrocked  for  less  than  what  you 
have  been  guilty  of." 

'*My  lord,  if  this  goes  on  I  shall  be  obliged  to  indict  this 
woman — Mrs.  Proudie,  I  mean — for  defamation  of  character." 

"I  think,  Mr.  Slope,"  said  the  Bishop,  "you  had  better  now 
retire,"  and  the  interview  soon  closed. 

Scorning  the  curacy  of  Puddingdale,  contemptuously  offered 
him  by  Mrs.  Proudie  at  the  moment  of  his  leaving  the  palace, 
Mr.  Slope  betook  himself  to  London  at  once,  there  married  the 
widow  of  a  wealthy  sugar-refiner,  and  presently  became  famous 
as  one  of  the  most  eloquent  and  pious  preachers  in  the  metropolis. 


ORLEY  FARM   (1861) 

This  novel  was  one  of  the  author's  own  favorites;  he  regarded  it  as  the  most 
faithful  of  all  his  pictures  of  English  country  life.  Its  legal  complications 
suggested  to  him  the  idea  of  making  a  dramatic  version  of  the  plot, 
which  was  begun  but  never  finished. 

^T  is  the  duty  of  rich  city  knights  to  *'  found  fam- 
ilies," and  it  is  their  pleasure  to  marry  young 
wives.  Sir  Joseph  Mason  performed  his  duty 
and  took  his  pleasure. 

His  son  by  his  first  marriage,  Joseph  Mason, 
Esq.,  lived  at  Groby  Park,  an  estate  in  Yorkshire, 
and  there  played  the  country  gentleman.  His 
daughters  were  all  married  and  handsomely  dow- 
ered. His  first  wife  had  long  been  dead,  so  why 
should  not  Sir  Joseph,  living  alone  on  his  property  of  Orley 
Farm,  about  twenty-five  miles  from  London,  indulge  himself  in 
a  wife  forty-five  years  his  junior? 

The  second  Lady  Mason,  brought  up  as  a  lady,  educated  in 
the  hard  school  of  poverty  and  taught  from  her  earliest  infancy 
that  money  was  all  in  all,  had  accepted  the  palsied  hand  of  the 
aged  knight  as  a  matter  of  course. 

Sir  Joseph  survived  his  second  marriage  about  three  years 
and  then  died,  leaving  a  young  widow  and  a  son,  Lucius,  two 
years  old. 

When  Sir  Joseph's  will  came  to  be  proved  it  was  found  that 
there  was  a  codicil  by  which  Orley  Farm  was  bequeathed  to 
the  infant  Lucius.  Joseph  Mason,  Esq.,  of  Groby  Park  was 
surprised,  indignant,  incredulous.  His  father  always  had  as- 
sured him  that  Orley  Farm  should  go  at  his  death  to  swell  the 
real  estate  held  by  the  ^'head  of  the  family." 

Lady  Mason  often  had  urged  Sir  Joseph  to  make  this  pro- 
vision for  his  infant  son,  but  the  knight  always  had  answered: 
"As  for  you,  madam,  you  shall  have  enough  to  support  you  in 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  21 

comfort  for  the  rest  of  your  life.  As  for  the  brat,  let  him  make 
his  way  in  the  world,  as  I  did.  The  head  of  the  family  shall  not 
be  crippled.'' 

The  codicil  was  written  in  Lady  Mason's  own  hand.  It  had 
been  dictated  to  her,  she  said,  by  Mr.  Usbech,  Sir  Joseph's  at- 
torney, the  said  Usbech  being  so  ill  at  the  time  that  he  could 
write  little  more  than  his  name.  It  was  witnessed  by  young  John 
Kennenby,  Sir  Joseph's  clerk,  and  by  Bridget  Bolster,  a  house- 
maid. 

'*I  have  been  robbed,  sir,  robbed  most  shamefully  by  that 
woman  at  Orley  Farm,"  said  the  Squire  of  Groby  Park.  So 
Joseph  Mason  protested  against  the  probating  of  the  codicil 
and  the  great  Orley  Farm  case  was  begun. 

But  Joseph  lost.  The  two  witnesses  distinctly  remembered 
having  been  called  to  Sir  Joseph's  bedroom,  where  he  lay  dying, 
on  the  date  of  the  codicil,  and  there  having  witnessed  some  docu- 
ment— doubtless  the  will.  Mr.  Usbech  had  died  before  Sir 
Joseph,  so  his  testimony,  which  would  have  been  conclusive, 
was  not  available.  But  Lady  Mason  won,  and  Lucius  Mason 
grew  to  man's  estate  and  became  master  of  Orley  Farm,  which 
was  a  snug  little  property. 

The  great  neighbors  of  the  Masons  were  the  Ormes  at  The 
Cleeve.  Nobody  in  that  neighborhood  was  quite  such  a  great 
man  as  Sir  Peregrine  Orme,  and  with  him  resided  his  son's 
widow,  Mrs.  Orme,  and  his  grandson  and  heir,  young  Pere- 
grine, who  was  of  the  same  age  as  Lucius  Mason. 

Lady  Mason's  widowed  life  was  successful,  and  the  worst 
thing  people  could  find  to  say  about  her  was  that  she  would  not 
drink  tea  with  Mrs.  Arkwright  of  Mount  Pleasant  Villa  because 
she  had  the  privilege  of  entering  Sir  Peregrine's  drawing-room. 
Of  course  there  could  be  no  real  social  equality  between  the 
widow  of  a  city  knight  and  the  daughter  of  one  baronet  of  James's 
creation  and  the  daughter-in-law  of  another,  even  though  she 
was  called  "my  lady"  and  the  other  was  only  plain  "Mrs." 
But  Sir  Peregrine  had  come  forward  as  Lady  Mason's  friend 
at  the  time  of  the  lawsuit,  and  by  degrees  an  intimacy  had  grown 
up  between  the  two  widows. 

Lady  Mason  went  to  Sir  Peregrine  for  advice  about  her  busi- 
ness affairs,  and  about  the  education  of  her  son,  and  if  there  was 


22  ORLEY  FARM 

anything  the  stout  old  Baronet  loved  it  was  giving  judicious 
advice  to  those  who  would  follow  it.  But  Lady  Mason  knew 
her  place,  and  was  not  at  The  Cleeve  nearly  as  much  as  the  great 
people  would  have  liked  to  see  her  there. 

Lucius  Mason  was  educated  at  a  private  school  and  then 
went  to  a  German  university,  while  young  Orme,  of  course,  went 
to  Harrow  and  Oxford.  Peregrine  came  home  a  great,  hearty, 
rather  stupid,  honest  young  gendeman,  given  to  fox-hunting 
and  with  a  strong  predilection  for  rat-baiting.  Lucius  Mason 
came  home  with  a  declared  intention  of  making  scientific  farm- 
ing and  philology  his  life  pursuits.  To  "philology  and  the  races 
of  men"  Lady  Mason  did  not  so  much  object,  but  when  it  came 
to  scientific  farming,  she  was  scared. 

"Oh,  Sir  Peregrine,"  she  told  her  patron,  "he  has  gone  off 
to  Liverpool  to  buy  a  load  of — of — guano.  He  says  that  what  he 
buys  here  is  adulterated.  And  he  has  taken  the  two  meadows 
away  from  Mr.  Dockwrath  and  thinks  of  taking  some  land  away 
from  Farmer  Greenwood,  who  always  pays  his  rent  so  promptly." 

"He  must  put  a  stop  to  that  sort  of  thing,  Lady  Mason," 
Sir  Peregrine  announced,  "or  he  will  soon  ruin  himself.  He 
would  better  come  and  dine  with  me  and  we  will  have  it  out 
after  dinner." 

So  Lucius  did  dine  with  Sir  Peregrine,  and  after  dinner,  when 
the  Baronet  introduced  the  subject  of  farming,  the  young  man 
quite  swamped  him  by  a  flood  of  theory  and  scientific  patter 
flowing  unrestrained  from  the  wide-open  sluice-gates  of  the 
German  universities. 

"That  young  man  is  the  most  conceited  puppy  it  has  ever 
been  my  lot  to  meet,"  said  Sir  Peregrine  afterward.  To  his 
mother,  when  she  intimated  that  experimental  farming  should 
be  attempted  only  by  men  of  large  capital,  Lucius  had  replied : 

"  Capital  is  a  bugbear.  The  capital  that  is  really  needed  is 
thought,  brains,  mind,  combination,  knowledge." 

Sir  Peregrine  might  swear.  Lady  Mason  could  only  sigh. 
But  Mr.  Dockwrath,  the  attorney  in  the  neighboring  town  of 
Hamworth,  with  a  wife  and  sixteen  children,  was  moved  to  ac- 
tion when  the  two  fields  that  he  had  held  under  lease  were  taken 
away  from  him.  He  had  married  Miriam  Usbech,  daughter 
of  the  late  Sir  Joseph's  attorney,  and  with  her  had  taken  a  legacy 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  23 

of  two  thousand  pounds  that  had  been  bequeathed  to  the  girl 
in  that  famous  codicil.  Sir  Joseph  had  often  said  that  he  in- 
tended to  provide  for  Miriam,  and  the  codicil  had  made  the  be- 
quest to  her  chargeable  on  property  that  otherwise  would  have 
gone  to  Lady  Mason.  That  had  been  one  of  the  points  in  the 
case  for  the  defense.  If  Lady  Mason  had  forged  the  codicil  she 
would  not  have  deprived  herself  of  two  thousand  pounds. 

Lady  Mason  had  desired  Miriam  to  marry  the  clerk,  Ken- 
nenby,  instead  of  the  attorney  with  a  shady  reputation,  and 
Dockwrath  knew  it  and  hated  her.  When  the  fields  were  taken 
away  from  him  he  began  eagerly  to  go  through  his  late  father- 
in-law's  papers.  He  emerged  from  the  examination  maliciously 
exuhant  and  hurried  down  to  Groby  Park  to  see  Joseph  Mason, 
Esq.  Dockwrath  had  discovered  that  on  July  14th,  the  very  date 
borne  by  the  codicil,  Sir  Joseph  had  signed  a  deed  of  separation 
pertaining  to  his  London  commercial  house,  and  the  maid  and 
the  clerk  had  witnessed  it.  At  the  trial  neither  of  them  had 
mentioned  having  witnessed  two  documents  on  that  date. 

This  original  deed  was  in  existence  in  the  hands  of  Sir 
Joseph's  former  partner.  If  the  clerk  and  the  maid  had  wit- 
nessed only  one  document  on  July  14th,  it  must  have  been  this 
deed,  and  the  codicil  must  have  been  a  forgery.  Mr.  Dock- 
wrath had  sounded  them,  and  they  were  sure  that  they  had 
signed  only  one  document. 

**For  twenty  years  she  has  robbed  me!"  exclaimed  Joseph 
Mason  of  Groby  Park,  and  let  slip  an  oath  or  two.  "  No  punish- 
ment will  be  bad  enough  for  her.    They  ought  to  hang  her." 

"They  can't  hang  her,"  said  Mr.  Dockwrath. 

"No,"  replied  Joseph;  "they  have  altered  the  laws  so  as 
to  give  encouragement  to  forgers,  villains,  and  perjurers.  But 
they  can  give  her  penal  servitude  for  life." 

Mr.  Dockwrath  naturally  wished  to  be  Mr.  Mason's  legal 
representative  in  the  matter;  but  Mr.  Mason  was  cautious,  and 
insisted  that  the  attorney  hand  over  his  information  to  his  regular 
legal  advisers.  Round  and  Crook,  most  respectable  attorneys, 
who  would  not  touch  such  a  creature  as  Dockwrath  with  a  ten- 
foot  pole.  After  much  haggling  and  a  promise  that  he  should 
be  recompensed  for  his  work,  the  Hamworth  lawyer  went  up 
to  London  to  see  Round  and  Crook.    Meantime  Miriam  had 


24  ORLEY  FARM 

slipped  over  to  Orley  Farm  and  told  Lady  Mason  of  her  hus- 
band's sinister  designs.  Lady  Mason  took  counsel  with  her 
attorney,  Mr.  Furnival — and  with  Sir  Peregrine,  of  course. 

Lady  Mason  was  both  interesting  and  comely  in  her  grief,  in 
spite  of  her  forty-seven  years. 

The  great  Mr.  Furnival  left  a  very  pleasant  house-party  to 
come  to  London  and  meet  Lady  Mason.  The  great  Mr.  Fur- 
nival had  been  a  hard-working,  modest-living  attorney  in  his 
time,  but  in  his  age  and  his  prosperity  had  developed  into  a 
Lothario  with  a  port-wine  nose,  who  spent  as  little  time  as 
possible  at  home.  His  wife,  who  had  not  developed  at  all  since 
those  days  of  poverty  and  work,  was  morbidly  jealous. 

Mr.  Furnival  comforted  his  fair  client.  He  thought  there 
would  be  no  suit,  but  if  there  was  he  would  stand  by  her. 

"But,  tell  me.  Lady  Mason,"  said  he,  "why  are  you  so  much 
out  of  heart?  I  remember  well  how  brave  you  were  twenty 
years  ago  when  there  really  was  cause  for  trembling." 

"  Ah,  I  was  younger  then." 

"So  the  almanac  tells  me,"  he  replied;  "but  if  the  almanac 
did  not  tell  me  I  never  should  know  it." 

After  she  had  gone,  Mr.  Furnival  sat  thinking  how  comely 
she  was  and  how  intelligent.  But  by  degrees  he  ceased  to  think 
of  the  woman  and  considered  only  the  client. 

In  Sir  Peregrine  Orme  Lady  Mason  found  a  champion  of 
quite  another  sort.  The  stately,  kind-hearted  old  baronet  was 
filled  with  indignation  at  the  villainy  of  Mason  of  Groby  Park. 

"I  will  not  desert  you.  Lady  Mason,"  said  he;  "of  that  you 
may  be  sure.  You  have  no  occasion  to  frighten  yourself.  What 
documents  can  Dockwrath  have  found  that  can  possibly  harm 
you?  Ignore  the  whole  thing.  Lady  Mason,  unless  you  get 
some  legal  notice  that  requires  answering." 

"  Dear  friend,"  murmured  Lady  Mason,  and  Sir  Peregrine 
thought  how  well  preserved  and  uncommonly  pretty  she  was. 

"  Dear,  persecuted  creature,"  thought  the  Baronet  as  he  sat 
alone  after  the  interview.  And  then,  as  he  mused,  he  said  aloud 
to  himself:  "Why  should  I  not?" 

The  news  of  the  discovery  of  documents  bearing  on  the  great 
Orley  Farm  case  that  might  cause  Lady  Mason  to  be  indicted 
was  spread  broadcast  by  Dockwrath.    Lucius  Mason  angrily 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  25 

commanded  his  mother  to  *'  leave  all  that  sort  of  thing  to  him." 
He  was  her  natural  protector  and  would  prosecute  for  slander 
the  first  man  he  caught  repeating  the  story. 

It  took  Lady  Mason,  Mr.  Furnival,  and  Sir  Peregrine  com- 
bined to  induce  Lucius  to  subside,  and  when  he  did  so  he  did  it 
with  a  surly  and  superior  air. 

Lucius  was  in  love,  as  much  as  his  cold  nature  would  allow 
him  to  be,  with  Sophia  Furnival,  daughter  of  his  mother's  attor- 
ney, and  Miss  Sophia,  a  prudent  damsel,  reciprocated  his  feel- 
ings as  warmly  as  was  consistent  with  her  desire  to  choose  a 
husband  discreetly.  As  she  had  an  offer  from  Judge  Staveley's 
son  Augustus,  Sophia  had  decided  to  temporize  until  the  final 
possession  of  Orley  Farm  was  decided. 

Peregrine  Orme  meanwhile  had  fallen  over  head  and  ears  in 
love  with  Judge  Staveley's  daughter  Madeline.  But  Madeline, 
not  possessing  the  practical  qualities  of  Miss  Furnival,  had 
fallen  in  love  with  somebody  else,  which  somebody  was  a  briefless 
barrister,  one  Felix  Graham. 

"Oh,  dear,"  said  Lady  Staveley  to  the  Judge,  "why  can't 
she  love  Peregrine  ?  The  Cleeve  is  such  a  nice  property  and  lies 
so  near  our  own.  And  Felix  Graham  has  no  money  and  no 
business.     Oh,  dear!" 

"Well,  my  love,"  replied  the  Judge,  "neither  had  I  when  you 
married  me." 

"Oh,  that  was  quite  different,"  retorted  Lady  Staveley. 
And  she  thought  the  learned  Judge  was  rather  stupid  to  make 
such  a  comparison. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  the  Judge  soothingly,  "perhaps  we 
had  better  let  Madeline  choose  for  herself."  But  Lady  Staveley 
said  to  young  Peregrine:  "Do  not  give  up  hope,  my  dear  boy. 
Go  away  now  and  come  back  later  and  try  again." 

Soon  it  became  certain  that  Lady  Mason  would  be  forced  to 
stand  trial  for  perjury.  They  had  elected  to  try  her  on  that 
charge  rather  than  forgery,  which  would  have  been  harder  to 
prove.  Sir  Peregrine's  answer  to  this  was  to  say  to  Mrs. 
Orme :  "  My  dear,  we  ought  to  be  especially  good  to  Lady  Mason 
in  her  great  trouble.  The  countenance  of  such  a  family  as  ours 
will  be  of  great  help  to  her.  You  must  invite  her  to  The  Cleeve 
to  stay  until  this  atrocious  persecution  is  ended." 


26  ORLEY  FARM 

Mrs.  Orme,  who  was  lovingly  attached  to  Lady  Mason, 
consented  gladly. 

"  Mother,"  said  Lucius,  "  there  is  a  cloud  over  us  now.  Your 
place  is  here  and  I  am  your  defender  until  this  dastardly  con- 
spiracy is  brought  to  naught  and  its  authors  punished."  But 
Lady  Mason  went  to  The  Cleeve  nevertheless.  And  while  Lady 
Mason  was  staying  at  his  house,  Sir  Peregrine  asked  himself 
again:  "Why  should  I  not?" 

The  chivalrous  old  gentleman,  who,  though  he  had  turned 
seventy,  was  still  keenly  alive  to  a  strong  feeling  of  romance,  had 
assured  Lady  Mason  that  he  would  be  to  her  as  a  father;  but 
her  woman's  instinct  told  her  that  the  pressure  of  his  hand 
was  warmer  than  that  which  a  father  accords  to  an  adopted 
daughter. 

One  day  Sir  Peregrine  cautiously  opened  his  question  of 
"Why  should  I  not?"  with  Mrs.  Orme.  Then,  seeing  that  he 
was  making  little  progress,  he  came  out  plumply  with : 

"  Edith,  I  love  her  with  my  whole  heart.  I  would  fain  make 
her  my  wife." 

"Dearest  father,"  softly  replied  Mrs.  Orme,  "will  it  make 
you  more  happy?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied  slowly.     "I  think  it  will." 

So  Mrs.  Orme  was  satisfied.  Sir  Peregrine's  happiness  was 
her  only  consideration.    To  Lady  Mason  he  said : 

"I  am  an  old  man — some  would  say  a  very  old  man.  But 
I  am  not  too  old  to  love  you.  Can  you  accept  the  love  of  an  old 
man  like  me?  I  mean  the  love  of  a  husband  for  his  wife,  of  a 
wife  for  her  husband?" 

Though  not  exactly  taken  by  surprise,  Lady  Mason  was  much 
agitated. 

"Sir  Peregrine.  Ah,  me!  You  have  not  remembered  the 
position  in  which  I  am  placed,  dearest  friend,  dearest  of  all 
friends" — and  then  she  knelt  before  him,  leaning  on  his  knees 
as  he  sat  in  his  accustomed  armchair.  "  It  may  not  be  so.  Think 
of  the  sorrow  that  would  come  upon  you  and  yours  if  my  ene- 
mies should  prevail." 

"  By ,  they  shall  not  prevail." 

"But  there  will  be  disgrace  in  even  standing  at  that  bar," 
she  protested. 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE 


27 


"Who  will  dare  to  say  so  when  I  shall  stand  there  with  you?" 
he  replied. 

Lady  Mason  was  tempted.  There  had  grown  in  her  heart 
a  real  love  for  this  old  man,  the  first  of  the  kind  she  had  ever 
known.  This  she  felt  was  the  love  a  woman  should  have  for 
the  man  she  married.  And  here  was  a  haven  of  refuge,  ofiFered 
her  when  she  most  needed  it. 

In  her  distress  and  her  weakness  she  yielded,  crying  out: 
"  Oh,  Sir  Peregrine,  it  would  have  been  better  for  you  that  you 
never  had  seen  me!" 

The  news  that  Lady  Mason  was  soon  to  become  Lady  Orme 
was  soon  flung  abroad.  Lady  Mason  wrote  the  news  to  Lucius 
at  Orley  Farm,  and  the  austere  Lucius  was  horrified.  Children 
always  are  at  the  idea  of  their  parents  marrying  again.  Sir 
Peregrine  told  young  Peregrine,  and  the  grandson  was  surly. 

"  I  hope  you  understand  that  it  will  not  affect  your  interests," 
said  the  grandfather. 

"I  do  not  care  about  that,  sir,  one  way  or  the  other,"  the 
grandson  replied,  with  sturdy  truth. 

"I  think  I  have  a  right  to  please  myself  in  this  matter," 
said  Sir  Peregrine. 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir,  you  have  the  right,"  was  the  sole  reply. 

Then  young  Peregrine  rode  over  to  Orley  Farm  to  see  Lucius, 
and  they  agreed  that  the  marriage  must  not  take  place.  Mr. 
Furnival  heard  the  news  with  hardly  less  anger  than  the  two 
young  men.  His  interest  in  Lady  Mason's  law  business  began 
to  wane. 

The  blundering  young  Peregrine,  while  disapproving  of  his 
grandfather's  marriage,  let  out  to  the  old  gentleman  that  he  him- 
self had  matrimonial  intentions  in  regard  to  Miss  Staveley,  and 
that  his  love  affairs  were  not  prospering.  Sir  Peregrine  returned 
good  for  evil  by  sympathizing  with  his  grandson,  bidding  him 
hope  and  try  again — ^which  was  a  shrewd  piece  of  diplomacy 
and  partly  reconciled  the  youth  to  his  grandfather's  marriage. 

One  evening,  as  Sir  Peregrine  sat  in  the  library  alone.  Lady 
Mason  came  to  him  and  said : 

"Sir  Peregrine,  it  is  impossible  that  we  should  be  married." 

"And  why  not?    Have  I  done  anything  to  offend  you?" 

"No,  no,  I  do  not  think  that  would  be  possible.     But,  oh. 


28  ORLEY  FARM 

my  dearest  and  best  beloved,  it  may  not  be!  Sir  Peregrine,  I 
am  guilty!'* 

"  Guilty !     Guilty  of  what  ?  " 

"  Guilty  of  all  this  with  which  they  charge  me,"  she  sobbed, 
and  then  she  threw  herself  on  the  floor  and  put  her  arms  around 
his  knees.     The  old  man  was  bewildered. 

"Lady  Mason,"  he  said  at  last,  "let  me  lead  you  to  the  sofa." 

She  sat  there,  then,  huddled  up  in  a  corner  of  the  sofa  with 
her  face  hidden.  She  was  not  hysterical,  but  when  she  spoke 
her  voice  had  a  terrible  agony  in  it.  Then  she  confessed  that  she 
had  forged  the  signatures  to  the  codicil  that  her  child  might  not 
be  left  penniless.  She  had  done  for  Lucius  what  Rebecca  did 
for  Jacob. 

"You  will  tell  Edith,"  said  the  shaking  old  man.  "And — 
and  I  fear  that  this  must  be  over  between  you  and  me." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  "  it  must  be  all  over." 

But  it  was  Sir  Peregrine  who  told  Mrs.  Orme,  and  that  good 
woman  went  at  once  to  Lady  Mason's  chamber  and  comforted 
her  and  wept  with  her. 

Sir  Peregrine  aged  rapidly — he  never  had  shown  his  age 
before — ^but  he  resolved  to  stand  by  Lady  Mason  more  stanch ly 
than  ever.  Orley  Farm  must  be  given  up  to  its  rightful  owner, 
that  was  agreed  on — ^but  not  until  after  the  trial.  It  was  ar- 
ranged that  Lady  Mason  should  return  to  the  farm,  and  that 
Mrs.  Orme  should  accompany  her,  to  show  that  the  great  folk 
of  The  Cleeve  were  still  her  friends. 

The  news  soon  spread  abroad  that  the  match  between  the 
widow  and  Sir  Peregrine  was  broken  off — ^by  Lady  Mason's  own 
act,  it  was  given  out.  Mr.  Furnival's  interest  in  her  case  revived 
wonderfully;  but  the  shrewd  lawyer  guessed  a  great  deal,  and  the 
more  he  examined  the  matter  the  more  he  became  convinced 
that  it  would  be  best  to  employ  the  celebrated  Mr.  Chaff  anbrass 
and  the  no  less  celebrated  Mr.  Aram,  Old  Bailey  practitioners, 
who  made  a  specialty  of  restoring  criminals  to  their  friends  and 
relatives.  Then  Lady  Mason  knew  that  Mr.  Furnival  knew, 
but  no  word  of  that  kind  was  spoken  between  them. 

The  day  of  the  trial  came  at  last,  and  Mrs.  Orme  sat  beside 
Lady  Mason  in  the  crowded  court  room.  Mrs.  Orme  as  she 
took  her  seat  was  so  confused  that  she  could  scarcely  look  around 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  29 

her,  but  Lady  Mason  was  calm  and  collected.  She  had  thought 
much  of  this  day,  and  had  arranged  all  its  details.  She  had 
dressed  herself  with  great  care  and  appropriateness,  and  Mr. 
Furnival,  as  she  turned  her  head  toward  the  Judge,  was  startled 
by  the  grace  of  her  appearance.  Lucius  Mason  was  with  his 
mother,  of  course,  and  filled  with  indignation  that  she  was  not 
acquitted  at  once  and  her  enemies  denounced  and  sent  to  jail. 

Joseph  Mason  also  was  discontented.  The  Solicitor-General, 
in  his  opening  address,  did  not  hold  Lady  Mason  up  to  the 
scorn  and  indignation  of  the  jury,  as  the  Squire  would  have  had 
him  do. 

The  trial  lasted  two  days,  and  a  part  of  the  third  day  was 
occupied  by  the  Judge's  charge  and  the  consultation  of  the  jury. 
When  the  lawyers  for  the  defense  got  through  with  Dockwrath 
he  had  not  a  shred  of  character  left.  The  great  Mr.  Chaffan- 
brass  made  him  confess  his  revengeful  motives  in  the  matter  and 
dragged  out  of  him  that  he  had  a  promise  from  Joseph  Mason 
that  so  soon  as  Orley  Farm  was  restored  to  the  ^'head  of  the 
family"  the  Hamworth  attorney  should  be  the  tenant. 

Poor  John  Kennenby,  who  had  got  so  wofuUy  mixed  up  in 
his  testimony  at  the  first  trial  that  the  Judge  had  called  him  a 
fool,  was  confronted  with  a  transcript  of  that  testimony,  and 
became  so  confused  in  his  answers  that,  though  he  honestly  tried 
his  best  to  say  he  had  witnessed  only  one  document  on  July  14th, 
he  was  in  reality  made  to  say  anything  his  examiner  and  cross- 
examiner  wanted  him  to.     His  testimony  was  worthless. 

But  Bridget  Bolster  was  quite  another  sort  of  person  and 
baflSed  even  the  crafty  Mr.  Chaffanbrass.  The  most  damaging 
admission  he  could  get  out  of  her  was  that  she  had  taken  a  glass 
of  spirits  just  before  she  came  into  court  and  had  been  in  the 
company  of  Dockwrath.  But  Bridget,  fixing  her  eyes  on  the 
canopy  over  the  Judge's  head,  repeated  steadfastly  that  she  had 
witnessed  only  one  document  on  July  14th. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  day's  session  of  the  court,  when  the 
evidence  was  all  in  and  the  lawyers  had  made  their  pleas,  the 
fate  of  Lady  Mason  plainly  was  in  doubt.  The  great  crowd 
that  had  come  into  the  little  assize  town  of  Alston  to  see  and  hear 
the  trial  was  divided  into  two  camps  over  what  the  verdict  would 
be.    When  Lady  Mason  came  into  court  on  the  morning  of  the 


so  ORLEY  FARM 

third  day  her  son  Lucius  was  not  with  her.     The  night  before, 
Mrs.  Orme  had,  with  his  mother's  consent,  told  him  all. 

"Oh,  mother,  what  is  this  she  has  told  me?"  said  Lucius  as 
Lady  Mason  threw  herself  on  the  floor  at  his  feet. 

"  Mother,  if  you  will  rise  I  will  speak  to  you." 

"Your  words  kill  me!"  she  cried.     She  had  done  it  for  him. 

"Mother,"  continued  Lucius,  "it  is  all  over  here.  But  our 
lot  must  still  be  together.  You  will  find  me  here  when  you  come 
back  to-morrow.  But  we  must  then  go  away  forever.  If  they 
imprison  you  I  will  come  to  you.  If  I  said  that  I  forgave  you,  my 
words  would  be  a  mockery.  I  neither  condemn  nor  forgive.  I 
accept  the  situation." 

Yet  Lady  Mason  seemed  as  calm,  collected,  and  confident  as 
ever  when  she  appeared  in  court  next  morning.  The  Judge's 
charge  blew  aside  all  the  froth  that  the  lawyers  had  been  stirring 
up,  and  the  jury  retired.  Lady  Mason  and  Mrs.  Orme,  accom- 
panied by  the  sturdy  and  faithful  Peregrine,  went  to  a  little  room 
and  waited,  waited,  waited.  Suddenly  Mr.  Aram  rushed  upon 
them.  The  jury  was  coming  in — ^Lady  Mason  must  appear  in 
court. 

The  three  followed  Mr.  Aram  into  the  court  room.  There 
stood  the  jury  looking  serious  and  composed. 

"Have  you  agreed  upon  a  verdict?" 

"We  have,  my  lord." 

"Is  it  guilty  or  not  guilty?" 

"Not  guilty,  my  lord." 

Shortly  after  that  eventful  day  Mr.  Mason  of  Groby  Park 
received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Furnival  saying  that  his  client,  Lucius 
Mason,  would  no  longer  occupy  Orley  Farm  and  desired  to  give 
up  that  estate  to  "the  head  of  the  family."  It  required  a  per- 
sonal interview  to  convince  Joseph  Mason  that  he  was  really  to 
have  the  estate. 

"What?"  said  he.  "And  without  compensation?  Then 
she  has  robbed  me.  That  will  was  forged,  after  all.  For  twenty 
years  she  has  robbed  me,  and  I'll  punish  her  if  I  spend  every 
penny  I  possess." 

He  did  try  to  reopen  the  case,  but  could  find  no  one  to  take 
it  up  for  him  in  the  face  of  two  adverse  verdicts.  Mr.  Dock- 
wrath  sued  Mason  for  a  large  sum  which  he  declared  was  due 


^^ 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  31 

him  for  his  services.  He  lost,  and  the  expenses  of  the  trial  ruined 
him  and  also  made  a  big  hole  in  Mason's  estate. 

Miss  Furnival,  when  she  heard  that  Lucius  was  to  give  up 
Orley  Farm,  promptly  wrote  him  a  letter  offering  to  be  a  sister 
to  him.  Madeline  Staveley  married  her  briefless  barrister,  and 
young  Peregrine  went  off  to  Central  Africa  hunting  big  game. 

"Edith,''  said  poor  old  Peregrine  to  Mrs.  Orme,  "had  she 
so  chosen,  she  could  have  demanded  a  home  from  me.  Why 
should  I  not  give  it  to  her  now?" 

"I  trust,"  replied  Mrs.  Orme,  "that  she  will  bear  her  present 
lot  for  a  few  years,  and  then,  perhaps — " 

"Ah,  then  I  shall  be  in  my  grave.  A  few  months  will  do 
that,"  said  the  Baronet.  He  went  up  to  London  to  see  Lady 
Mason,  and  found  her  preparing  to  go  abroad  with  Lucius.  Her 
income  would  support  them  in  a  quiet  German  village  until 
Lucius  should  get  employment. 

"  Mary,"  said  he,  "  I  wish  that  I  might  comfort  you.  I  wish 
I  might  hear  your  light  step  again  upon  my  floors." 

"Never,  Sir  Peregrine,"  she  replied.  "No  one  ever  again 
shall  rejoice  to  hear  either  my  step  or  my  voice,  or  to  see  my 
form  or  touch  my  hand.  I  could  have  loved  you  with  my  whole 
heart  had  it  been  so  permitted.  Nay,  I  did  do  so.  It  is  well  for 
us  both  now  that  you  should  leave  me." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  twice  upon  the  fore- 
head and  left  the  room  without  further  speech  on  either  side. 


CAN  YOU  FORGIVE  HER?   (1864) 

In  1850  Anthony  Trollope  attempted  to  write  a  comedy  in  mingled  blank 
verse  and  prose,  to  which  he  gave  the  title  of  The  Noble  JUL  Much  pleased 
with  this  production,  after  carefully  retouching  it  here  and  there,  the  author 
placed  it  in  the  hands  of  his  friend  George  Bartley,  a  noted  actor,  to  obtain  his 
judgment.  That  judgment  was  unfavorable,  and  in  later  life  Trollope  ac- 
knowledged that  Bartley  was  right.  On  this  rejected  play  the  story  of  Can 
You  Forgive  Her?  was  mainly  based.  Trollope  informs  us  that  he  chose 
another  name  for  the  novel,  "lest  the  critics  might  throw  a  doubt  on  the  nobility." 
In  August,  1863,  the  first  number  of  Can  You  Forgive  Her?  was  issued  as  a 
separate  serial,  and  the  publication  of  the  story  was  thus  continued  through 
1864.  It  is  the  first  in  order  of  the  author's  six  novels  of  contemporary  politics 
that  constitute  the  Parliamentary  Series.  The  time  allowed  for  the  develop- 
ment of  the  tale  is  a  little  less  than  two  years,  and  the  period  is  the  earlier  part 
of  the  sixth  decade  of  the  nineteenth  century.  For  this  work  the  author  received 
;^3,575- 


HEN  Alice  Vavasour  was  twenty-four  years  of  age 
she  was  living  with  her  father  in  a  small  house 
in  Queen  Anne  Street,  London,  and  was  engaged 
to  Mr.  John  Grey,  who  lived  on  his  estate  of 
Nethercoats,  near  Ely,  in  Cambridgeshire.  Her 
father  was  the  second  son  of  a  Westmoreland 
squire  and  had  married  Alice  Macleod,  a  wealthy 
heiress  of  good  family.  The  marriage  gave  great 
offense  to  the  Macleods;  but  Mrs.  Vavasour  died 
when  her  daughter  Alice  was  born,  and  her  fortune  was  settled 
upon  the  child.  Alice  was  educated  by  her  mother's  kindred, 
who  troubled  themselves  very  little  about  her  otherwise,  except 
a  certain  Lady  Macleod,  whom  Alice  called  aunt,  who  was  living 
in  Cheltenham  on  a  small  income,  and  was  now  over  seventy- 
five.  On  her  father's  side  her  only  relatives  were  her  grand- 
father and  her  cousins  George  and  Kate  Vavasour,  the  children 
of  Squire  Vavasour's  eldest  son,  and  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Greenow. 
George  Vavasour  was  the  natural  heir  of  the  Westmoreland 
estate,  and  three  years  previously  Alice  had  been  engaged  to  him, 
or  had  said  that  under  certain  circumstances  she  would  become 


32 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  33 

engaged  to  him.  George,  however,  had  proved  but  a  clay  idol, 
and  because  of  his  untruth  to  her  the  arrangement  had  come 
to  an  end.  All  this  had  been  imparted  to  Mr.  Grey  when  she 
became  engaged  to  that  gentleman;  but  although  she  could  not 
forgive  George  as  a  lover,  she  had  pardoned  him  as  a  man  be- 
cause he  was  her  cousin  and  the  brother  of  her  dear  friend  Kate, 
and  she  was  now  to  take  a  Swiss  tour  in  company  with  Kate 
and  George.  To  this  tour,  in  such  company,  Lady  Macleod 
strongly  objected,  thereby  strengthening  Alice's  purpose.  Alice 
declared  that  her  lover  would  be  incapable  of  such  suspicion 
as  would  be  shown  by  an  objection  on  his  part  to  the  arrange- 
ment for  the  tour,  and  in  reply  to  her  letter  announcing  her 
plans  he  had  written  a  courteous  letter  in  which  no  such  ob- 
jection was  even  obscurely  hinted  at. 

On  the  June  day  before  that  appointed  for  the  departure 
John  Grey  came  to  say  good-by  and  to  urge  a  date  for  their 
marriage  soon  after  the  return;  but  to  this  Alice  demurred,  and 
the  question  was  not  pressed  further.  She  was  by  no  means 
fully  sure  of  herself,  and  perhaps  had  John  Grey  expressed 
definite  disapproval  of  the  Swiss  tour  she  might  have  yielded  in 
both  matters. 

During  the  major  part  of  the  tour  no  word  was  said  which 
could  have  displeased  Mr.  Grey  could  he  have  heard  it,  but 
one  evening  in  Basel  George  told  his  cousin  that  he  could  not 
understand  her  loving  such  a  man  as  Grey.  Had  she  made  a 
mistake  in  regard  to  Mr.  Grey,  was  a  question  she  had  already 
been  putting  to  herself,  and  while  George  was  speaking  she 
knew  that  she  had  mistaken. 

''If  you  take  my  advice,''  said  Kate  to  her  brother  when  they 
were  next  alone,  "you'll  ask  her  in  plain  words  to  give  you  an- 
other chance." 

To  Alice  Kate  declared  that  George  still  wished  to  marry 
her;  and  although  Alice  made  but  a  lame  defense  of  her  position 
as  the  betrothed  bride  of  Mr.  Grey,  she  determined  that  on  her 
return  she  would  bid  him  name  the  earliest  day  he  pleased  for 
the  wedding.  Nevertheless,  when  she  reached  London  and 
found  a  letter  from  her  lover  urging  her  to  consent  to  a  marriage 
in  October,  she  replied  that  she  could  not  let  him  hope  that  they 
should  be  married  that  year.    In  response  he  sent  a  line  saying 

A.D.,  VOL.  xvn. — 3 


34  CAN  YOU  FORGIVE  HER? 

that  he  should  go  up  to  London  to  sec  her  at  once,  and  she  then 
resolved  that  she  must  tell  him  the  whole  truth.  By  this  she 
meant  that  she  must  end  her  engagement,  not  that  her  heart  had 
turned  again  to  her  cousin  George.  She  told  herself,  indeed, 
that  no  marriage  was  possible  for  her  now.  She  did  not  doubt 
her  love  for  John  Grey,  nor  his  character;  but  she  did  feel  that 
there  was  a  wide  difference  in  their  dispositions,  and  that  with 
her  lack  of  sympathy  in  his  interests  she  could  not  make  him 
happy. 

"He  is  perfect!"  Alice  had  said  to  herself  often.  "  Oh,  that 
he  were  less  perfect!" 

In  their  interview  he  preserved  entire  self-command,  thereby 
deceiving  Alice  as  regarded  the  strength  of  his  own  feelings,  but 
insisted  that  only  her  marriage  with  someone  else  would  con- 
vince him  that  their  engagement  must  terminate. 

In  her  devotion  to  her  brother  Kate  Vavasour  urged  him  to 
renew  his  love-affair  with  Alice,  a  thing  which  he  was  much  in- 
clined to  do  if  only  to  do  an  injury  to  Grey,  and  she  sent  him  a 
part  of  a  letter  from  Alice  in  which  the  writer  said  that  every 
moment  she  had  spent  with  Mr.  Grey  at  their  last  meeting  had 
made  her  more  determined  than  before  to  break  her  engage- 
ment. 

George  Vavasour  had  been  successively  a  parliamentary  land- 
agent,  a  wine-merchant,  and  a  stock-broker,  and  had  lately  un- 
successfully contested  a  seat  in  Parliament.  He  was  desirous  of 
making  another  trial,  and  being  already  involved  with  publicans 
and  attorneys  as  regarded  past  election  expenses,  was  well  aware 
that  much  more  money  would  be  needed  to  meet  the  exigencies 
of  another  contest.  If  he  could  persuade  Alice  to  engage  herself 
to  him,  her  fortune  would  help  him  vastly  in  his  undertaking. 
Alice  by  this  time  had  informed  her  father  that  she  could  not 
marry  Mr.  Grey,  which  disturbed  him  greatly.  He  announced 
that  he  should  not  interfere,  though  he  considered  her  action 
foolish,  and  expressed  the  hope  that  she  was  not  thinking  again 
of  her  cousin  George,  who  did  not  bear  a  good  reputation  in  the 
world  at  large.  When  George  called  that  same  day  she  told 
him  that  her  engagement  was  ended,  at  which  he  rejoiced  so 
openly  as  to  startle  her,  and  when  her  cousin  had  gone  she  asked 
herself  whether  she  had  not  been  mad  when  she  sent  from  her 


I 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  35 

side  the  only  man  she  had  ever  truly  respected.  Still,  she 
adhered  to  her  resolution,  and  when  Mr.  Grey  visited  her  at 
Lady  Macleod's  in  Cheltenham  she  could  only  repeat  what  she 
had  said  before.  But  when  John  Grey  spoke  of  the  happiness 
of  his  whole  life  as  being  at  stake  with  a  decision  against  him 
that  would  be  ruinous  to  it,  he  spoke  without  a  quiver  in  his 
voice,  and  had  no  more  sign  of  passion  than  if  he  were  telling 
his  gardener  to  move  a  rose-tree,  and  such  admirable  calmness 
was  much  against  him  in  a  matter  of  that  kind. 

Among  Alice's  grand  relatives  on  the  maternal  side  was  Lady 
Glencora  Palliser,  who  had  been  Lady  Glcncora  McCluskie, 
the  great  heiress,  and  was  now  the  wife  of  Plantagenet  Palliser, 
nephew  of  the  Duke  of  Omnium.  She  was  four  years  younger 
than  Alice,  and  more  than  a  year  previously  had  been  on  the 
point  of  elopement  with  Burgo  Fitzgerald,  a  handsome  scape- 
grace of  thirty  who  had  gained  her  heart.  Her  friends  had 
rallied  to  prevent  this  sacrifice,  with  the  result  that  she  had  been 
decorously  married  to  Mr.  Palliser,  whom  she  did  not  love. 
Burgo  had  had  money  dealings  with  George  Vavasour  and  thus 
had  learned  of  Alice's  relation  to  Lady  Glencora,  and  while  Lady 
Glencora  was  trying  to  hold  out  against  the  wishes  of  her  friends 
she  had  begged  Alice  to  let  her  meet  Burgo  at  the  house  in  Queen 
Anne  Street,  where  an  elopement  might  be  planned.  Alice  re- 
fused, but  Lady  Glencora  was  finally  pacified  and  Alice  was 
subsequently  asked  to  be  one  of  the  bridesmaids  at  the  Palliser 
wedding.  The  Pallisers  had  then  gone  abroad,  and  Alice  had 
heard  no  more  from  her  grand  cousin  till  she  was  now  invited  by 
Lady  Glencora  to  visit  her  at  Matching  Priory.  But  before  that 
visit  George  Vavasour  called  upon  Alice,  complaining  that  she 
had  not  been  quite  frank  with  him,  and  succeeding  at  length 
in  establishing  something  like  the  former  friendship.  He  also 
asked  for  her  friendship  and  sympathy  in  his  political  career. 
At  Matching  she  was  on  terms  of  closest  intimacy  with  Lady 
Glencora,  who  told  her  she  had  done  right  to  break  with  Mr. 
Grey  if  she  did  not  love  him. 

"But  I  did  love  him,"  said  Alice. 

"Then  I  don't  understand  it,"  said  Lady  Glencora. 

At  another  time  Lady  Glencora  assured  her  that  if  she  had 
only  yielded  when  the  meeting  in  Queen  Anne  Street  was  pro- 


2,6  CAN  YOU  FORGIVE  HER? 

posed  she  (Lady  Glencora)  would  then  have  gone  away  with 
Fitzgerald  and  all  the  after  misery  of  being  the  wife  of  a  man 
she  respected  but  did  not  love  would  have  been  avoided.  As 
for  Burgo  Fitzgerald,  she  admitted  loving  him  with  her  heart 
and  soul.  There  was  much  further  confidence  to  the  same 
effect,  and  Alice  could  only  implore  her  friend  to  remember 
what  was  due  to  her  husband  and  herself  and  avoid  every  chance 
of  meeting  Burgo. 

At  Christmas  time  when  Alice  had  gone  to  Vavasour  Hall  in 
Westmoreland,  George  wrote  to  her,  again  asking  her  to  be  his 
wife,  saying  frankly  that  if  she  were  his  wife  he  should  expect  to 
use  her  money  in  his  parliamentary  contest — not  that  he  asked 
her  to  marry  him  for  the  sake  of  that  aid,  but  if  she  became  his 
wife  he  should  expect  her  cooperation;  with  her  money,  possibly, 
but  certainly  with  her  enthusiastic  sympathy.  As  he  placed  his 
letter  in  its  envelope  he  said  to  himself:  "I'll  bet  two  to  one  that 
she  gives  way."  And  after  waiting  several  days  and  discussing 
the  matter  with  her  cousin  Kate  she  did  give  way,  and  wrote  him 
that  she  could  not  marry  him  under  a  year,  but  that  any  portion 
of  her  money  was  at  his  service  should  he  need  it  before  the 
twelvemonth  was  over.  She  had  now  the  disagreeable  task  of 
apprising  her  grandfather  of  her  change  of  purpose,  a  task  not 
made  pleasanter  by  his  query : 

"And  that's  the  meaning  of  your  jilting  Mr.  Grey,  is  it?" 
Nor  was  her  father  pleased  with  the  proposed  marriage. 
John  Vavasour  considered  his  nephew  a  rascal,  and  so  expressed 
himself  to  Alice,  while  her  intention  to  furnish  her  unworthy 
lover  with  such  a  portion  of  her  fortune  as  he  might  ask  for  made 
him  still  more  opposed  to  the  match.  As  Alice  knew  that  her 
father,  while  yet  a  worldly  man,  was  neither  false  nor  malicious, 
his  energy  in  this  matter  was  proof  that  he  believed  himself  to 
be  right  in  his  opinion  of  George.  To  tell  the  truth,  Alice  was 
frightened  at  what  she  had  done,  and  almost  repented  of  it 
already.  Her  acceptance  of  her  cousin's  offer  had  not  come  of 
love.  She  had  not  so  much  asked  herself  why  she  should  do 
this  thing,  as  why  she  should  not  do  it,  seeing  that  it  was  re- 
quired of  her  by  her  friend.  If  I  can  do  him  good,  why  should 
I  not  marry  him?  In  that  feeling  had  been  the  chief  argument 
that  had  induced  her  to  return  such  an  answer  as  she  had  sent 


'^ 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  37 

to  her  cousin.  What  if  she  were  ruined?  There  was  always  the 
other  chance.  She  might  save  him  from  ruin,  and  help  him  to 
honor  and  fortune.  While  she  was  turning  these  things  over  in 
her  mind  her  cousin  came  to  see  her.  She  was  not  glad  to  see 
him,  and  he  observed  it.  The  interview  was  painful,  and  when 
he  asked  her  to  kiss  him  she  shuddered.  With  all  his  desire  for 
her  money — his  instant  need  of  it — this  was  too  much  for  him, 
and  he  left  the  room. 

John  Grey  had  not  yet  been  informed  of  her  engagement  to 
George,  but  she  found  courage  at  last  to  write  him  the  news, 
which  gave  him  bitter  pain  but  did  not  make  him  abandon  his 
hope  utterly.  Her  father  informed  him  that  he  did  not  know  a 
worse  man  than  his  nephew,  but  as  Alice  was  her  own  mistress 
he  could  not  prevent  her  marriage.  Grey  determined  to  buy 
off  George  Vavasour,  if  he  should  find  Alice  had  no  real  love 
for  her  cousin,  and  when  he  saw  her  he  knew  that  there  was  no 
love  for  that  man  to  whom  she  had  pledged  her  hand,  but  he 
did  not  know  how  unchanged  was  her  love  for  himself. 

Grey  now  paid  a  visit  to  his  lawyer  in  company  with  Alice's 
father,  and  it  was  arranged  that  George  Vavasour  should  get 
his  funds  from  Grey's  fortune  rather  than  from  Alice's,  but  in 
such  a  way  that  neither  Alice  nor  Vavasour  should  know  the  real 
source  whence  the  funds  were  to  come.  John  Vavasour  ex- 
plained later  to  his  daughter  that  in  disposing  of  large  sums  of 
money  she  should  apprise  him,  even  if  the  property  were  her 
own,  and  Alice  then  undertook  that  when  such  case  should  arise 
the  money  should  be  raised  through  his  means, 

George  Vavasour  knew  very  well  that  Alice  did  not  love 
him,  and  but  for  his  sore  need  of  cash  for  election  expenses  he 
would  have  spared  himself  the  task  of  asking  her  for  money. 
He  presently  determined  that  Kate  should  be  his  ambassador 
in  this,  and  went  to  Westmoreland,  where  she  was  now  living 
with  her  grandfather,  to  arrange  matters  to  this  end.  Kate 
offered  her  own  small  portion,  which  he  declined,  and  then 
applied  unsuccessfully  to  her  aunt  Greenow.  At  last,  with  ex- 
treme reluctance,  she  wrote  to  Alice  for  a  thousand  pounds 
toward  her  brother's  electioneering  expenses,  and  when  George 
returned  to  London  he  found  that  the  money  had  been  placed 
to  his  credit.     He  found  also,  in  course  of  time,  that  much  more 


38  CAN  YOU  FORGIVE   HER? 

money  would  soon  be  required,  and  he  was  obliged  to  draw 
still  further  upon  the  fortune  of  his  cousin. 

He  gained  his  seat  in  Parliament  and  came  to  ask  Alice's 
congratulations,  but  because  she  would  not  say  that  she  loved 
him  he  again  parted  from  her  in  anger.  He  swore  to  himself 
that  he  would  never  be  indebted  to  her  for  another  shilling;  but 
Parliament  would  be  dissolved  in  three  months,  and  he  knew 
he  should  need  more  money  to  reenter  it.  In  talk  with  his 
lawyer,  Scriby,  he  learned  the  name  of  Mr.  Grey's  lawyer,  Mr. 
Tombe,  and  at  once  suspected  that  Grey,  Alice,  and  Mr.  Tombe 
might  be  arranging  his  money-matters.  He  might  endure  to 
take  Alice's  money,  but  not  John  Grey's.  He  hated  Grey,  but 
for  the  moment  he  hated  Alice  more.  He  visited  Grey  at  his 
lodgings,  an  altercation  ensued,  and  Vasasour  was  ejected. 

The  Westmoreland  squire  died  about  this  time,  his  grand- 
daughter Kate  being  the  sole  member  of  the  family  then  with 
him.  On  the  same  day  she  received  a  letter  from  Alice  telling 
how  George  had  ill  used  and  insulted  her,  and  in  this  matter 
Kate's  sympathies  were  now  all  with  her  cousin.  She  loved 
her  brother,  but  she  had  lost  belief  in  him.  The  family  were 
present  at  the  reading  of  the  will,  which  document  passed  over 
the  natural  heir,  George  Vavasour,  and  devised  the  estate  to 
George's  eldest  son,  when  such  son  should  be  twenty-five.  If 
there  were  no  son,  the  property  was  to  go  to  Kate's  son,  should 
there  be  one.  Angry  at  these  provisions,  George  grossly  in- 
sulted the  family  lawyer,  and  in  a  stormy  scene  with  his  sister 
on  the  moors  she  declared  he  did  not  understand  what  it  meant 
to  be  honest.  In  his  rage  because  she  would  not  admit  their 
grandfather  to  have  been  other  than  sane  when  the  will  was 
made,  he  threatened  to  be  her  death,  and  as  he  left  her  he  pushed 
her  to  the  ground  so  harshly  that  her  arm  was  broken.  She  re- 
turned to  the  Hall  in  much  pain,  but  would  not  tell  how  the 
accident  had  happened,  while  her  brother,  heaping  curses  on 
everyone,  including  himself,  presently  returned  to  London. 
Kate  told  herself  that  everything  in  life  was  over  for  her.  He 
had  asked  her  to  perjure  herself  that  he  might  have  his  own 
way,  and  had  threatened  to  murder  her  because  she  had  refused 
to  obey  him.  At  this  moment  she  resolved  that  she  never  wished 
to  see  him  more. 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  39 

Matters  ere  this  had  reached  a  crisis  with  Lady  Glencora. 
Uncertain  of  herself  in  stress  of  temptation,  she  had  attempted 
to  avoid  all  meetings  with  the  man  she  still  loved;  but  Mr.  Pal- 
liser  had  insisted  in  her  mingling  in  the  society  where  she  would 
necessarily  meet  Fitzgerald,  and  when  she  did  encounter  him  at 
Lady  Monk's  she  had  danced  with  him  because  he  had  asked 
her.  The  next  day  she  told  her  husband  exactly  how  things  were 
with  her;  that  she  never  should  make  him  happy;  that  they  did 
not  love  each  other;  that  she  loved  Fitzgerald,  and  the  night 
before  had  almost  decided  to  go  away  with  him.  In  reply  he 
told  her  that  he  did  love  her  and  would  rather  have  her  for  his 
wife,  if  she  would  try  to  love  him,  than  any  other  woman,  and 
then  he  proposed  a  trip  abroad  and  suggested  that  Alice  Vava- 
sour should  accompany  them.  Thus  it  chanced  that  Alice 
was  again  thrown  with  the  Pallisers.  Mr.  Palliser  had  for- 
given his  wife  and  accepted  her  promise  to  love  him,  at  the  same 
'moment  that  he  acknowledged  to  himself  that  he  had  married 
without  loving  or  without  requiring  love.  He  was  still  under 
thirty,  and  the  goal  of  his  ambition  had  been  the  Chancellorship 
of  the  Exchequer.  At  this  juncture  the  office  was  tendered  him, 
but  he  declined  it  because  of  his  promise  to  take  his  wife  abroad. 

The  day  before  that  appointed  for  their  departure  Burgo 
Fitzgerald  called  at  the  Pallisers'  in  Park  Lane  and  encountered 
Mr.  Palliser  going  out  before  the  servant  had  answered  his 
question  whether  Lady  Glencora  were  in. 

"I  am  not  sure,"  said  Mr.  Palliser;  "the  servant  will  find  out 
for  you." 

Then  he  went  on  his  way,  never  once  turning  back  to  see 
whether  Burgo  effected  an  entrance.  Nor  did  he  return  a  min- 
ute earlier  than  he  would  otherwise  have  done. 

Burgo  was  shown  into  the  room  where  she  was,  and  she  rose 
to  greet  him,  first  sending  the  servant  for  Alice.  He  would  not 
leave  when  she  refused  to  give  him  her  hand,  and  even  in  the 
presence  of  Alice  he  still  persisted  in  remaining.  To  his  question 
why  she  bade  him  go  she  replied : 

"  Because  I  am  another  man's  wife,  and  because  I  care  for 
his  honor,  if  not  for  my  own." 

Then  he  kissed  her  and  departed. 

Of  course  Lady  Glencora  knew  all  about  John  Grey  and  his 


40  CAN  YOU  FORGIVE  HER? 

rejection,  and  much  of  George  Vavasour  also,  and  she  was  pre- 
pared to  welcome  Grey  with  open  arms  if  Alice  were  likely  to 
do  so  too,  which  just  now  did  not  seem  probable.  But  at  Lucerne 
John  Grey  was  encountered  by  Mr.  Palliser  and  the  two  men 
soon  became  friendly.  Grey  resolved  to  tell  his  story  to  Mr. 
Palliser  in  the  hope  of  gaining  his  assistance,  and  that  gentleman 
promised  to  do  what  he  could.  It  was  therefore  tacitly  agreed 
by  the  Pallisers  that  Mr.  Grey  was  to  mingle  with  them  as  a 
friend,  and  Lady  Glencora  assured  him  of  her  most  cordial 
assistance.  With  such  allies,  joined  to  the  assurance  of  her  own 
heart,  it  is  not  strange  that  he  at  last  gained  his  desire  and  that 
before  the  party  left  Lucerne  Alice  had  yielded  to  his  loving 
persistence.  Mr.  Grey  returned  to  England  with  the  Pallisers, 
who  congratulated  him  most  heartily. 

Mr.  Palliser,  who  had  very  recently  been  apprised  of  the  fact 
that  in  the  course  of  time  there  would  be  an  heir  or  heiress  to 
the  Palliser  fortunes,  was  in  so  blissful  9.  state  tliat  he  could 
afford  to  be  generous  to  everyone  and  through  his  intervening  it 
came  to  pass  that  the  penniless  Fitzgerald  was  made  the  re- 
cipient of  a  weekly  amount  of  fifteen  pounds  so  long  as  he  should 
remain  in  a  certain  small  German  town  where  there  was  no 
gaming-table.  True,  the  sum  did  not  come  from  Lady  Glen- 
cora's  husband,  but  it  was  Mr.  Palliser  who  was  primarily  re- 
sponsible for  this  action  on  the  part  of  Burgo's  relatives. 

Before  John  Grey  had  gone  to  Lucerne  he  had  received  a 
second  visit  from  George  Vavasour,  who  proposed  a  duel  with 
pistols  there  and  then,  and  when  Grey  declined  he  said: 

"Look  here,  Mr.  Grey.  You  managed  to  worm  yourself 
into  an  intimacy  with  my  cousin  and  to  become  engaged  to  her. 
When  she  found  out  what  you  were,  how  paltry,  mean,  and  vile, 
she  changed  her  mind  and  bade  you  leave  her." 

"Are  you  here  at  her  request?" 

"I  am  here  as  her  representative." 

"  Self-appointed,  I  think." 

"Then,  sir,  you  think  wrong.  I  am  at  the  moment  her 
affianced  husband,  and  I  find  that  you  still  persecute  her  by 
forcing  yourself  upon  her  presence.  I  give  you  two  alternatives: 
either  give  me  your  written  promise  never  to  go  near  her  again, 
or  fight  me." 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  41 

Upon  Grey^s  refusal  to  accept  either,  Vavasour  repeated  his 
insults  and  flourishing  a  pistol  declared  that  Grey  should  not 
leave  the  room  alive  unless  he  promised  to  meet  the  speaker 
somewhere  and  fight  it  out.  Then  as  Grey  moved  toward  the 
bell  Vavasour  fired.  The  bullet  narrowly  escaped  Grey's  head 
and  buried  itself  in  the  wall  close  by.  Perceiving  that  he  had 
missed  his  aim,  and  momentarily  forgetting  the  other  charges  in 
his  pistol,  the  would-be  murderer,  with  a  curse,  flung  himself 
out  of  the  room.  When  the  police  searched  for  him  he  was  not 
to  be  found;  but  later  it  became  known  that  he  had  sailed  for 
America,  where  he  vanished  from  sight.  After  John  Grey  had 
become  intimate  with  Mr.  Palliser  he  told  him  of  this  incident, 
only  a  softened  version  of  which  ever  reached  Alice.  Hitherto 
Grey  had  taken  comparatively  little  interest  in  politics,  but 
association  with  Mr.  Palliser  effected  a  change  in  that  respect, 
and  through  the  Palliser  interest  it  came  about  that  he  was  pres- 
ently returned  to  Parliament  as  member  for  Silverbridge,  and  at 
the  same  time  Mr.  Palliser  himself  obtained  the  much  desired 
post  of  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  and  in  about  ten  days'  time 
would  be  on  his  legs  in  the  House  proposing  for  his  country's  use 
his  scheme  of  finance.  To  crown  his  happiness,  he  became  the 
father  of  a  son  to  inherit  the  dukedom  of  Omnium. 

While  these  various  affairs  were  in  progress,  the  wealthy 
Widow  Greenow,the  aimt  of  Alice  and  Kate,  had  been  weighing 
the  merits  of  her  two  suitors — a,  penniless  captain  and  a  well-to-do 
Norfolk  farmer — ^and  having  decided  at  last  upon  the  captain, 
had  succeeded  not  only  in  pacifying  the  unsuccessful  suitor  but 
in  getting  him  engaged  to  a  young  friend  of  her  own,  Charlotte 
Fairstairs,  after  in  vain  commending  him  to  the  consideration  of 
her  favorite  niece,  Kate.  Mrs.  Greenow  became  Mrs.  Bellfield 
before  the  marriage  of  Alice  took  place.  She  took  Captain  Bell- 
field  for  better  or  for  worse,  with  a  thorough  determination  to 
make  the  best  of  his  worst,  and  to  put  him  on  his  legs,  if  any  such 
putting  might  be  possible,  and  both  Kate  and  Alice  were  present 
at  the  ceremony. 


THE  SMALL  HOUSE  AT  ALLINGTON   (1864) 

This  novel,  the  fifth  of  the  Barsetshire  Series,  began  its  career  as  a  serial 
in  the  Cornhill  Magazine  in  September,  1862,  and  in  October  of  that  year  was 
similarly  issued  in  Harper's  Magazine,  continuing  in  monthly  instalments  until 
June,  1864.  In  his  AiUohiography  Anthony  Trollope,  pronouncing  judgment 
upon  his  own  writings,  remarks:  "I  have  created  better  plots  than  those  of  The 
Small  House  at  Allingion  and  Can  You  Forgive  Her?  and  I  have  portrayed  two 
or  three  better  characters  than  are  to  be  found  in  tlie  pages  of  either;  but,  taking 
these  books  all  through,  I  do  not  think  I  have  ever  done  better  work."  From 
the  Cornhill  Magazine  in  payment  for  this  story  Trollope  received  three  thousand 
pounds.  Although  the  novelist  has  described  the  neighborhood  of  Allington 
with  considerable  detail,  it  is  by  no  means  certain  that  he  had  any  actual  locality 
in  mind;  but  he  appears  to  have  wished  his  readers  to  understand  that  it  was 
somewhere  in  eastern  Hampshire.  The  period  is  the  earlier  portion  of  the  sixth 
decade  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  the  time  allowed  for  the  conduct  of  the 
tale  is  a  little  more  than  eleven  months. 


^N  the  small  village  of  Allington  the  Dales  were  the 
most  important  persons.  Christopher  Dale,  a 
bachelor  nearing  seventy,  the  Squire  of  Allington, 
resided  in  the  Great  House  by  himself,  and  was 
often  visited  by  Captain  Bernard  Dale,  the  son 
of  his  brother  Colonel  Orlando  Dale;  while  the 
Small  House,  close  at  hand,  was  occupied  by  the 
widow  of  his  youngest  brother,  Philip,  with  her 
daughters  Bell  and  Lily.  Not  far  distant  was  the 
market  town  of  Guestwick,  near  which  was  Guestwick  Manor, 
the  residence  of  Lord  De  Guest  and  his  sister  Lady  Julia. 
Another  sister  of  the  EarPs  had  as  a  young  woman  eloped  with 
Colonel  Orlando  Dale,  and  their  son,  Bernard,  was  now  the 
acknowledged  heir  of  Squire  Christopher.  The  Squire  was  a 
plain,  undemonstrative  man,  close  in  small  financial  matters, 
and  yet  in  some  directions  capable  of  much  liberality.  For 
ten  years  his  brother's  widow  had  been  occupying  rent  free  the 
Small  House,  which  belonged  to  the  Squire;  but  his  ungracious 
manner  had  prevented  the  growth  of  any  specially  cordial  feel- 
ings between  the  two.    Mrs.  Dale's  income  was  small,  and  she 

42 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  43 

had  accepted  her  brother-in-law's  ofler  for  her  daughters'  sake 
rather  than  for  her  own. 

To  his  nieces  their  uncle  had  been  kind  in  his  peculiar  way, 
which  was  not  the  pleasantest  way  in  the  world.  Money  he 
never  gave  them;  but  they  were  Dales  and  he  loved  them,  and 
with  Christopher  Dale  to  love  once  was  to  love  always.  Bell 
was  his  favorite,  sharing  with  Bernard  the  best  warmth  of  his 
heart.  He  had  planned  the  marriage  of  these  two,  but  of  this 
Bell  was  ignorant.  Bell  was  twenty-one,  and  her  mother  had 
fancied  that  a  certain  Dr.  Crofts  of  Guestwick  would  be  her 
daughter's  choice,  but  now  that  appeared  unlikely. 

There  was  another  young  man  belonging  in  Guestwick  who 
was  well  known  to  the  Dale  girls,  John  Eamcs,  now  in  the  In- 
come-Tax Office  in  London.  His  father  had  been  intimate 
with  the  Squire,  who,  on  his  friend's  death  in  comparative  pov- 
erty, had  procured  the  London  place  for  the  son.  The  Squire 
had  been  kind  to  his  friend's  widow,  but  in  an  ungracious  way, 
and  Mrs.  Dale  had  visited  her  on  terms  of  great  cordiality. 
Her  daughters,  moreover,  were  on  terms  of  warm  friendship 
with  John  Eames,  who  was  hopelessly  in  love  with  Lily  Dale 
when  he  went  up  to  London.  With  an  income  of  only  a  hun- 
dred pounds  a  year  he  knew  that  he  could  not  make  a  home 
for  her,  and  he  felt  himself  to  be  but  an  awkward  hobbledehoy; 
but  not  the  less  did  he  make  up  his  mind  that,  as  he  had  loved 
her  once,  it  behooved  him,  as  a  true  man,  to  love  her  to  the  end. 

In  Lily  Dale's  nineteenth  summer  her  cousin  Bernard  came 
to  visit  his  uncle  Christopher,  bringing  with  him  his  intimate 
friend  Adolphus  Crosbie,  a  senior  clerk  in  the  General  Com- 
mittee Office,  Whitehall.  Bernard  had  been  fortunate  in  his 
profession,  being  now  Captain  in  the  Engineers,  a  slight,  small 
man,  not  unlike  his  uncle  in  looks,  and  with  the  equanimity  of 
a  somewhat  cold  temperament.  Crosbie  was  a  tall,  handsome 
man,  whom  people  liked  to  meet,  and  who  could  make  himself 
agreeable  to  most  persons.  He  very  soon  made  the  acquaint- 
ance, through  Bernard,  of  the  young  ladies  at  the  Small  House, 
and  at  first  he  appeared  chiefly  to  notice  Bell.  Such  feeling  as 
she  may  have  had  for  Dr.  Crofts  had  been  apparently  overcome, 
and  it  is  very  possible  that  Crosbie  might  have  won  her  affection 
had  he  so  desired,  but  he  did  not  so  desire,  and  ere  the  end  of 


44         THE   SMALL  HOUSE  AT  ALLINGTON 

his  first  visit  he  transferred  his  distant  homage  from  the  elder 
to  the  younger  sister.  Returning  to  Allington  as  the  Squire's 
guest,  for  a  longer  visit,  he  became  Lily's  accepted  lover  at  the 
end  of  a  month.  Bell  soon  perceived  how  matters  were  going, 
and  said  what  she  could  to  foster  Lily's  evident  regard  for  him. 

Crosbie  was  very  happy  at  first  in  his  engagement,  but  had 
hoped  Lily's  uncle  would  settle  a  definite  amount  of  money 
upon  her;  and  failing  to  obtain  any  such  assurance  from  the 
Squire,  he  was  much  disappointed,  nevertheless  he  told  himself 
that  no  consideration  of  worldly  welfare  should  ever  induce  him 
to  break  his  engagement.  Such  firnmess  would  involve  the 
sacrifice  of  his  social  aspirations  and  ambitions,  but  he  felt  him- 
self prepared  for  that.  While  Crosbie  was  at  Allington  Johnny 
Eames  had  been  down  at  Guestwick  to  see  his  mother,  and 
had  learned  of  Lily's  engagement,  to  his  great  sorrow. 

Lily  Dale's  engagement  appeared  to  render  the  Squire  eager 
to  carry  out  his  wishes  regarding  her  sister,  and  he  urged  Ber- 
nard so  warmly  to  propose  to  Bell  that  the  Captain  consented 
to  do  so  at  once.  At  the  first  opportunity,  therefore,  the  offer 
was  made,  but  in  a  voice  betraying  not  the  least  passion  or 
nervousness,  and  was  declined.  Bernard  loved  his  cousin,  but 
in  his  own  equable  fashion;  he  was  not  susceptible,  like  Johnny 
Eames.  It  was  because  of  his  susceptibility  that  young  Eames, 
while  adoring  Lily  Dale,  had  become  entangled  in  the  meshes 
of  a  net  spread  for  him  by  Amelia  Roper,  the  daughter  of  his 
London  boarding-house  keeper. 

Amelia  was  a  designing  young  woman,  who,  having  once  ex- 
torted from  Eames  a  written  profession  of  love  for  her,  meant  to 
capture  him  if  she  could;  and  although  he  did  not  in  the  least 
love  her  and  called  himself  an  ass  for  fearing  her,  he  did  indeed 
very  much  fear  her,  and  the  possibility  that  she  might  somehow 
gain  her  ends  was  very  bitter  to  him.  Amelia  had  twice  written 
to  him  at  Guestwick,  in  the  second  letter  announcing  that  she 
should  go  to  Guestwick  by  express  if  she  did  not  hear  from  him 
by  return  post.  In  his  perplexity  he  roamed  idly  about  the 
Guestwick  park,  and  falling  asleep  under  a  tree  was  presently 
waked  by  Lord  De  Guest,  who  when  he  found  the  sleeper  to  be 
the  son  of  an  old  friend  became  very  cordial.  Detecting  signs 
of  trouble  in  Eames's  face,  the  Earl  kindly  told  him  to  write  to 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  45 

him  in  case  he  should  ever  need  advice  or  counsel,  and  after  this 
little  incident  Eames  somehow  found  courage  to  reply  to  Amelia. 

Crosbie  had  been  invited  by  Lady  De  Courcy  to  visit  at 
Courcy  Castle,  and  accordingly  before  returning  to  London  he 
did  so.  He  had  known  the  De  Courcys  a  long  time,  and  certain 
attentions  had  been  paid  by  him  in  the  past  to  Lady  Alexandrina, 
the  youngest  of  the  four  daughters  of  the  house.  Lady  De  Guest 
was  also  a  visitor  at  the  Castle  and  quickly  divulged  the  news  of 
his  engagement  to  Lily  Dale. 

"I  dare  say  it  will  come  to  nothing,"  said  the  Countess,  who 
liked  to  hear  of  girls  being  engaged  and  then  losing  their  prom- 
ised husbands.  She  did  not  know  that  she  liked  it,  but  she  did, 
and  already  had  pleasure  in  anticipating  poor  Lily's  discom- 
fiture. But  not  the  less  was  she  angry  with  Crosbie,  feeling  that 
he  was  making  his  way  into  her  house  under  false  pretenses. 
And  Alexandrina  also  was  angry.  The  Countess  was  very  civil, 
saying  nothing  about  the  engagement,  but  continued  to  ridicule 
him  gently  for  his  prolonged  stay  among  so  primitive  and  rural 
a  tribe  of  people  as  the  Dales. 

"  I  suppose  it  won't  go  beyond  a  souvenir  with  you?"  This 
was  a  direct  question,  but  still  admitted  of  a  fencing  answer. 

"It  has,  at  any  rate,  given  me  one,"  said  he,  "which  will  last 
me  my  life." 

The  Countess  was  not  discouraged,  however,  and  thus  it 
fell  out  that  before  the  end  of  his  visit  Crosbie  had  offered  himself 
to  Alexandrina  and  had  been  accepted.  He  had  not  been  in  all 
respects  a  willing  sacrifice,  but  the  thing  had  been  done.  It 
soon  came  to  the  ears  of  Lady  Julia  De  Guest,  who  told  him 
that  he  had  treated  Lily  Dale  like  a  villain,  and  when  he  re- 
ceived a  third  letter  from  Lily  expressing  disappointment  that 
the  previous  ones  had  not  been  answered,  he  would  have  given 
all  he  had  in  the  world,  three  times  told,  if  he  could  have  blotted 
out  that  visit  to  Courcy  Castle. 

While  these  matters  were  in  progress  at  the  castle,  the  Squire 
of  Allington  had  learned  of  Bernard's  unsuccessful  offer  to  Bell, 
and  had  told  his  sister-in-law  of  the  circumstances.  He  was 
disappointed,  and  felt  hurt  that  Mrs.  Dale  would  not  promise  to 
influence  her  daughter  in  Bernard's  behalf.  John  Eames  was 
still  at  Guestwick,  and  as  he  had  the  good  fortime  to  rescue  the 


46  THE   SMALL  HOUSE  AT  ALLINGTON 

Earl  from  a  bull  that  was  about  to  gore  him,  he  at  once  mounted 
high  in  his  lordship's  favor.  The  Earl  asked  him  to  dinner  and 
gave  him  a  gold  watch  in  token  of  gratitude. 

Before  Lady  De  Guest  returned  to  Guestwick  Manor  she 
wrote  to  Squire  Dale  to  inform  him  that  Mr.  Crosbie  was  sup- 
posed to  be  engaged  to  Lady  Alcxandrina,  and  he  at  once  rode 
to  Courcy  Castle,  to  find  that  Crosbie  had  departed.  He  then 
called  upon  Crosbie  at  his  London  club,  where  he  learned  the 
truth  from  Crosbie's  friend  Pratt,  who  did  not  disguise  his 
opinion  of  Crosbie's  course,  but  consented  reluctantly  to  see 
the  Squire  in  his  stead  and  bear  a  letter  to  that  gentleman.  The 
next  day  Crosbie  sent  a  hurried  line  to  Lily  Dale,  explaining 
nothing,  and  on  the  day  following  wrote  to  Mrs.  Dale  a  con- 
fession of  what  he  had  done  and  expressed  the  hope  that  Lilian 
might  "soon  forget,  in  the  love  of  an  honest  man,  that  she  ever 
knew  one  so  dishonest  as  Adolphus  Crosbie." 

Then  Mrs.  Dale  saw  the  Squire,  who  sent  loving  messages 
to  his  niece,  declaring  that  if  her  old  uncle  could  do  anything  for 
her  she  had  only  to  let  him  know;  and  Mrs.  Dale,  as  she  walked 
back  to  her  own  house,  acknowledged  to  herself  that  her  brother- 
in-law's  manner  to  her  was  different  from  anything  that  she  had 
hitherto  known  of  him.  After  the  first  shock  of  sorrow,  Lily 
summoned  all  her  courage  and  took  up  the  burden  of  living, 
praying  daily  for  her  recreant  lover  and  only  asking  that 
she  should  not  be  kept  in  the  dark  as  to  the  day  of  his  wed- 
ding. 

The  De  Courcys  kept  close  watch  upon  Crosbie  that  winter, 
and,  much  against  his  will,  he  was  forced  to  spend  the  Christmas- 
tide  at  Courcy  Castle. 

Earl  De  Guest,  having  occasion  to  go  to  London,  asked  young 
Eames  to  dine  with  him  at  his  hotel;  and  Johnny  found  the  Earl 
highly  indignant  with  Crosbie  and  declaring  that  he  should 
fancy  nothing  would  please  Miss  Dale  so  well  as  to  know  that 
the  man  had  somehow  been  punished. 

"  If  I  thought  so,"  said  Eames,  "  I'd  find  him  out  to-morrow  " ; 
and  in  this  way  the  Earl  knew  whom  his  young  friend  loved  and 
gave  him  every  encouragement  possible,  asking  him  to  get  leave 
of  absence  from  his  office  and  spend  a  few  days  at  Guestwick 
Manor,  in  the  course  of  which  he  could  talk  with  Lily's  uncle. 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  47 

The  visit  was  paid  and  the  Squire  was  apprised  of  the  EarPs 
pecuniary  intentions  toward  Johnny,  but  during  the  dinner  at 
Guest  wick  he  remained  non-committal  as  to  his  own  plans  for  his 
niece.  Then  Johnny  went  back  to  London,  accidentally  came 
upon  Crosbie,  attacked  him  savagely,  and  gave  him  a'  black  eye. 
News  of  this  event  at  the  Paddington  Station  spread  rapidly 
and  was  much  exaggerated  in  transit.  It  did  Eamcs  no  dis- 
service, delighting  the  Earl  and  Lady  Julia,  and  proving  not 
unpalatable  intelligence  to  some  of  Crosbie's  cronies. 

After  Crosbie's  defection  Bernard  again  besought  his  cousin 
Bell  to  marry  him,  urging  his  uncle's  desires  in  the  matter  and 
the  possible  good  results  to  Lily,  for  whom  the  Squire  now  felt 
so  much  sympathy.  To  this  Bell  replied  that  her  uncle's  wishes 
could  not  make  any  difference  in  regard  to  the  question,  and  that 
she  would  never  marry  a  man  she  did  not  love,  to  insure  any 
amount  of  happiness  to  others.  Thereupon  Bernard  told  his 
uncle  that  he  would  go  away  till  autunm. 

"If  you  would  give  up  your  profession  and  remain  here  she 
would  not  be  so  perverse." 

"  I  cannot  risk  the  well-being  of  my  life  on  such  a  chance." 

Then  his  uncle  had  been  angry  with  him  as  well  as  with  his 
niece,  and  determined  that  he  would  go  again  to  his  sister-in- 
law  and  be  very  angry  with  her  also,  if  she  declined  to  assist  him 
with  her  influence  as  a  mother.  She  did  so  decline;  and  al- 
though he  was  saddened  rather  than  angered,  he  said  things  that 
she  found  it  hard  to  forgive.  She  decided  that  it  would  be  best 
for  them  to  leave  the  Small  House,  and  her  daughters  agreed 
with  her.  When  the  Squire  was  told  of  his  sister-in-law's  in- 
tentions he  was  aghast;  but  Mrs.  Dale  was  not  to  he  turned  from 
her  purpose,  and  he  was  very  miserable  over  the  turn  of  affairs. 
Just  at  this  time  Lily  fell  ill  with  scarlatina,  and  Dr.  Crofts  was 
summoned.  When  the  disease  was  at  its  height  he  came  daily 
to  see  his  patient,  and  afterward,  when  the  danger  was  over,  he 
confessed  to  Bell  his  love  for  her,  saying : 

"What  if  so  poor  a  man  as  I  ask  for  the  hand  you  will  not 
give  to  so  rich  a  man  as  your  cousin  Bernard?" 

She  answered  "No,"  but  there  was  that  in  Bell's  No  which 
might  have  taught  him  that  the  bird  was  not  escaping  without 
a  wound,  if  he  still  had  any  of  his  wits  about  him.     But  Lily 


48  THE   SMALL  HOUSE  AT  ALLINGTON 

had  read  in  the  looks  of  Dr.  Crofts  his  love  for  her  sister,  and 
had  induced  her  to  tell  what  had  happened. 

''But  you  wouldn't  refuse  him  now?"  asked  Lily. 

*'I  don't  know,"  said  Bell.  *'It  seems  as  if  I  should  want 
years  to  make  up  my  mind,  and  he  won't  ask  me  again." 

Upon  this,  Lily  took  matters  in  her  own  hands,  and  at  the 
doctor's  next  visit  gave  him  to  understand  that  he  should  ask 
Bell  once  more;  and  when  discussing  with  Bell  the  proposed 
removal  to  Guestwick  from  the  Small  House,  she  remarked: 

"It  will  be  a  great  comfort  to  be  nearer  Dr.  Crofts,  won't 
it.  Bell?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Bell. 

^'  Because  if  we  are  ill  he  won't  have  such  a  terrible  distance 
to  come." 

**That  will  be  a  comfort  for  him,  I  should  think,"  said  Bell, 
very  demurely. 

On  the  14th  of  February  Crosbie  and  Lady  Alexandrina 
were  married  in  London.  Montgomerie  Dobbs  and  Fowler 
Pratt  both  stood  by  him,  giving  him,  let  us  hope,  assurances  that 
he  was  not  absolutely  deserted  by  all  the  world — that  he  had 
not  given  himself  up,  bound  hand  and  foot,  to  the  De  Courcys, 
to  be  dealt  with  in  all  matters  as  they  might  please.  It  was  that 
feeling  which  had  been  so  grievous  to  him — and  that  other  feel- 
ing, cognate  to  it,  that  if  he  should  ultimately  succeed  in  rebelling 
against  the  De  Courcys  he  would  find  himself  a  solitary  man. 
As  the  wife  of  Crosbie,  Lady  Alexandrina  found  existence  very 
dull,  and  her  husband  soon  ascertained  that  he  need  expect  from 
her  little  in  the  way  of  comfort  or  companionship.  All  the  sat- 
isfaction that  he  could  derive  from  his  present  experience  must 
come  from  his  office  work. 

In  a  little  more  than  three  months  Lady  Alexandrina  went 
abroad  with  her  mother,  who  could  no  longer  endure  Lord  De 
Courcy's  ill  temper,  and  Crosbie  found  himself,  though  with 
the  burden  of  a  wife's  support,  alone  in  lodgings  once  more, 
beginning  the  world  again  on  five  hundred  a  year,  the  remainder 
of  his  income  going  to  Lady  Alexandrina  at  Baden-Baden.  But 
he  would  have  consented  to  accept  his  liberty  with  three  hundred 
a  year,  so  great  to  him  was  the  relief. 

Lily  Dale  had  recovered  from  her  illness;  but  Dr.  Crofts 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  49 

decided  that  removal  to  a  new  house  should  not  take  place  till 
May,  on  her  account,  and  in  the  interim  Bernard  again  ofifered 
himself  to  Bell,  this  time  by  letter,  but  without  success.  While 
the  Dales  were  packing  the  Squire  brought  them  a  note  from 
Lady  Julia  asking  Mrs.  Dale  and  her  daughters  to  spend  a  week 
at  Guestwick  Manor  after  Easter.  The  Squire  had  received  a 
similar  invitation  from  the  Earl.  Lady  Julia  in  her  note  had 
unwisely  mentioned  that  John  Eames  was  invited  for  the  same 
week,  and  Lily  quickly  saw  through  the  friendly  scheme.  She 
declared  that  she  could  not  accept,  but  that  must  not  hinder 
the  others. 

When  alone  with  the  Squire  Mrs.  Dale  was  told  that  not  only 
had  the  Earl  promised  to  provide  a  comfortable  income  for 
Eames,  but  that  he  himself  would  settle  a  hundred  a  year  upon 
Lily  if  she  would  accept  young  Eames.  Mrs.  Dale  would  have 
been' glad  indeed  if  this  match  could  have  been  made,  but  she 
felt  quite  certain  that  Lily  could  never  return  John  Eames's 
love,  and  so  informed  the  Squire.  It  was  too  late  for  her  to 
abandon  the  plan  of  leaving  the  Small  House,  but  as  she  thought 
of  the  Squire's  kindness  on  the  way  home  she  almost  repented 
of  her  resolve.  As  she  entered  the  house  Lily  told  her  that  Bell 
and  the  doctor  were  in  the  drawing-room,  and  in  a  few  moments 
she  heard  from  Dr.  Crofts  that  Bell  had  consented  to  marry 
him.  Then  they  all  sat  around  the  fire,  talking  as  if  they  were 
already  one  family. 

Through  the  influence  of  Lord  De  Guest  Eames  had  now 
become  private  secretary  to  Sir  Rattle  Buffle  at  the  Income-Tax 
Office,  and  had  since  made  up  his  mind  to  leave  Mrs.  Roper's 
boarding-house.  Not  only  this,  but  he  felt  that  he  must  put  an 
end  to  all  relations  between  himself  and  Miss  Roper  before  he 
could  venture  to  speak  of  love  again  to  Lily  Dale.  It  had  been 
only  a  flirtation,  but  Miss  Amelia  had  intended  to  secure  a  hus- 
band for  herself  and  had  taken  advantage  of  his  hobbledehoy 
youth.  The  last  interview  between  them  was  sufficiently  un- 
comfortable, but  Eames  succeeded  in  making  her  understand 
that  what  she  wished  could  never  be,  and  as  he  went  away,  well 
out  of  his  difficulties  in  this  quarter,  he  felt  himself  now  ready 
for  his  love  tale  to  Lily. 

Lady  Julia  was  the  first  to  welcome  John  Eames  at  Guest- 
A.D.,  VOL.  xvn. — 4 


50         THE   SMALL  HOUSE   AT  ALLINGTON 

wick  Manor.  After  that  she  always  called  him  John  and 
treated  him  throughout  his  visit  with  wonderful  kindness.  Lady 
Julia,  had  she  been  called  upon  to  talk  of  it,  would  undoubtedly 
have  told  Eames  that  he  had  committed  a  fault  in  striking  Mr. 
Crosbie;  but  the  deed  had  been  done,  and  Lady  Julia  became 
very  fond  of  John  Eames.  As  soon  as  the  Earl  and  Eames  were 
alone  the  plan  for  the  campaign  was  imparted  to  the  young  man. 
The  Squire  and  his  niece  Bell  were  to  visit  at  the  Manor,  and 
it  was  thought  best  that  John  should  meet  them  at  the  Earl's 
on  the  first  day,  and  on  the  morrow  call  on  Mrs.  Dale  at  Allington. 

That  afternoon  he  went  to  see  his  mother,  and  on  the  way 
paused  at  the  center  of  a  little  foot-bridge  on  the  rail  of  which 
he  had  many  years  ago  carved  the  single  word  Lily.  The  letters 
were  still  there,  though  partly  effaced,  and  he  wondered  whether 
she  would  ever  come  there  with  him  and  let  him  show  the  carv- 
ing to  her.  When  Mrs.  Eames  told  him  that  Dr.  Crofts  was  to 
marry  Bell  he  was  dismayed  at  the  doctor's  luck  in  getting  him- 
self accepted  all  at  once,  while  he  had  been  suing  with  the  con- 
stancy almost  of  a  Jacob.  On  the  morrow  he  walked  to  Alling- 
ton and  found  Lily  and  her  mother  together,  for  when  Lily  saw 
him  coming  she  asked  Mrs.  Dale  not  to  go  away  and  leave  them; 
and  when  after  an  hour  he  at  last  found  words  in  which  to  de- 
clare his  love  he  was  obliged  to  do  so  in  the  mother's  presence. 

Lily  was  very  gentle  in  her  refusal,  but  although  Mrs.  Dale 
added  her  entreaties  to  his,  the  answer  was  still  No.  Although 
the  man  she  had  loved  had  married  another,  she  had  not 
changed,  and  loving  another  she  could  not  marry  John. 

"Tell  me  I  may  come  again  in  a  year,"  he  pleaded. 

"  You  may  not  come  again — ^not  in  this  way.  I  have  spoken 
to  you  more  openly  about  this  than  I  have  ever  spoken  to  any- 
body, even  to  mamma,  because  I  have  wished  to  make  you 
understand  my  feelings.  I  should  be  disgraced  in  my  own  eyes 
if  I  admitted  the  love  of  another  man,  after — after — it  is  to  me 
almost  as  if  I  had  married  him." 

These  were  terrible  words  for  both  mother  and  lover  to  hear. 
To  the  mother  they  revealed  a  depth  of  suffering  she  had  not  yet 
realized;  to  John  Eames  they  announced  the  utter  failure  of  his 
dearest  hopes.  He  had  failed,  and  as  he  went  back  to  Guest- 
wick  he  came  again  to  the  little  bridge.     "What  an  ass  I  have 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  51 

been  always  and  ever,"  he  said  to  himself,  conscious  of  his 
hobbledehoy  hood,  of  that  backwardness  in  assuming  manhood 
which  had  rendered  him  incapable  of  making  himself  acceptable 
to  Lily  before  she  had  fallen  into  the  clutches  of  Crosbie;  and 
as  he  stood  upon  the  bridge  he  took  his  knife  and  cut  out  Lily's 
name  from  the  rail.  Turning  around,  he  saw  Lady  Julia  close 
to  him  on  the  bridge.     She  had  already  seen  his  handiwork. 

"Has  she  offended  you,  John?"  she  said. 

"She  has  refused  me,  and  it  is  all  over." 

"It  may  be  that,  yet  it  need  not  be  all  over.  I  am  sorry  that 
you  have  cut  out  the  name.  Do  you  mean  to  cut  it  out  from 
your  heart?" 

"Never." 

"Keep  to  it  as  to  a  great  treasure.  To  have  loved  truly, 
even  though  in  vain,  will  be  a  consolation  when  you  are  as  old  as 
I  am.  Remember  how  young  you  both  are.  Come  again  in 
two  years'  time;  and  then,  when  you  have  won  her,  you  shall 
tell  me  that  I  have  been  a  good  old  woman  to  you  both." 

"  I  shall  never  win  her.  Lady  Julia."  As  he  spoke  the  tears 
were  running  down  his  cheeks.  When  he  once  knew  that  she 
had  seen  his  tears,  he  could  pour  out  to  her  the  whole  story  of 
his  grief  as  she  led  him  quietly  back  to  the  house. 

That  evening  Mrs.  Dale  made  her  own  appeal  once  more  in 
John's  behalf,  but  in  vain. 

"I  am  as  you  are,  mamma — ^widowed,"  was  Lily's  answer. 

After  that  Mrs.  Dale  had  a  talk  with  the  Squire  at  the  Great 
House,  in  which  she  was  told  that  he  was  settling  three  thousand 
pounds  on  each  of  her  daughters,  and  then  she  realized  how 
constantly  she  had  hitherto  judged  him  by  his  words  rather  than 
by  his  heart.  It  was  now  settled  that  she  and  Lily  should  live 
on  at  the  Small  House.  The  Squire,  too,  after  much  inward 
struggle,  confessed  to  himself  that  in  the  past  his  manner  to  his 
sister-in-law  had  not  been  as  kindly  as  it  should  have  been. 
Dr.  Crofts  and  Bell  were  married  in  June,  the  Squire  opening  the 
Great  House  in  honor  of  the  occasion,  and  not  only  were  the 
Earl  and  Lady  Julia  present,  but  Colonel  Dale  and  his  wife,  the 
Earl's  sister.  Bernard,  however,  did  not  attend  the  ceremony. 
As  for  John  Eames,  his  entrance  upon  full  manhood  might  be 
dated  from  his  disappointment. 


HE  KNEW  HE  WAS  RIGHT   (1869) 

This  novel  was  begun  while  Anthony  Trollope  was  living  at  Waltham 
House  in  the  parish  of  Waltham  Cross,  Hertfordshire,  and  was  completed  during 
his  stay  in  Washington,  D.  C,  in  the  spring  of  1868,  the  author  being  then 
engaged  in  efifecting  a  postal  treaty  between  Great  Britain  and  the  United  States. 
In  accordance  with  his  custom  of  allowing  no  appreciable  breaks  in  his  literary 
work,  he  began  the  composition  of  The  Vicar  0}  Bullhampton  the  very  next 
day  after  finishing  He  Knew  He  Was  Right.  Mr.  Virtue,  proprietor  of  Saint 
PauVs  Magazine,  brought  out  He  Knew  He  Was  Right  in  weekly  sixpenny 
numbers,  and  in  the  United  States  the  novel  was  issued  in  the  columns  of  Every 
Saturday,  Boston,  beginning  with  the  nimiber  for  October  10,  1868,  and  con- 
cluding in  that  for  May  29,  1869.  A  part  of  the  scene  is  laid  in  the  cathedral 
city  of  Exeter,  and  there  is  much  precision  of  local  coloring  in  this  part  of  the 
narrative. 


[HEN  Louis  Trevelyan  was  twenty-four  years  of 
age  he  chose  to  go  to  the  Mandarin  Islands,  and 
there  he  fell  in  love  with  Emily  Rowley,  daughter 
of  Sir  Marmaduke  Rowley,  the  Governor,  and 
as  he  was  handsome,  well  connected,  and  pos- 
sessed three  thousand  pounds  a  year,  he  was  not 
forced  to  sigh  long  in  vain.     And  he  himself  pro- 
posed that  Nora,  the  second  daughter,  should 
live   with   them   in   London.     Accordingly,   the 
Governor,  with  sundry  of  his  eight  daughters,  went  to  London 
on  leave  of  absence,  and  there  the  wedding  was  celebrated  by 
the  Reverend  Oliphant  Outhouse,  who  had  married  Sir  Marma- 
duke's  sister  and  was  rector  of   St.   Diddulph's-in-the-East. 
Lady  Rowley  discovered  that  Trevelyan  liked  his  own  way. 
"  But  his  way  is  such  a  good  way,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke. 
"  But  Emily  likes  her  way,  too,"  said  Lady  Rowley. 
Two  years  went  by.    The  Trevelyans  were  living  in  Curzon 
Street  and  Nora  was  with  them,  and  there  was  a  yoimg  Louis 
also.    But  trouble  had  come  to  them.    A  certain  Colonel  Os- 
borne, an  intimate  friend  of  Sir  Marmaduke's  and  about  his  age, 
was  a  frequent  caller  at  the  Trevelyans',  and  Trevelyan,  having 
in  mind  certain  stories  concerning  him,  had  said  to  his  wife  that 

52 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  53 

he  would  rather  not  have  the  man  received  at  the  house.  At 
this  Mrs.  Trevelyan  was  very  angry  and  told  Nora  that  if  she 
were  suspected  on  account  of  her  father's  old  friend  life  would 
not  be  worth  having.  Nora  counseled  submission.  If  the 
Colonel  should  call  again,  the  butler  should  be  told  to  say  she 
was  not  at  home.  Mrs.  Trevelyan  declared  that  any  such  or- 
ders should  be  given  by  her  husband.  Trevelyan  repented  his 
harshness,  but  could  not  bear  to  own  that  he  had  been  wrong. 
As  he  walked  to  and  fro  among  his  books  he  almost  felt  that  he 
ought  to  beg  his  wife's  pardon.  He  knew  her  well  enough  to  be 
sure  that  she  would  not  forgive  him  unless  he  did  so.  He  would, 
he  thought,  but  not  exactly  now.  While  he  debated  with  himself 
the  Colonel  called  and  was  shown  to  the  drawing-room.  Had 
Trevelyan  obeyed  his  first  impulse  to  go  there  also  and  kept  his 
temper  with  the  visitor,  he  would  have  paved  the  way  for  easy 
reconciliation  with  his  wife,  but  he  told  himself  that  he  with- 
drew because  he  would  not  allow  himself  to  be  jealous.  Then 
he  resolved  to  be  decided  with  his  wife ;  he  would  not  apologize, 
but  would  tell  her  again  that  it  was  necessary  that  all  intimacy 
with  Osborne  should  be  discontinued. 

The  Colonel  had  called  ostensibly  to  discuss  with  her  a  plan 
for  bringing  Sir  Marmaduke  to  England  at  public  expense  to 
give  evidence  respecting  colonial  government,  but  Osborne  stip- 
ulated that  the  matter  should  be  spoken  of  to  no  one  at  that 
stage  of  affairs,  and  to  this  she  unwillingly  consented.  At  his 
club,  however,  Trevelyan  incidentally  learned  of  Osborne's 
scheme  and  was  angered  at  having  first  heard  at  the  club  what 
should  have  been  ascertained  at  home,  he  thought.  His  resent- 
ment was  increased  that  evening  at  a  party  at  Lady  Milbor- 
ough's  when  the  hostess,  who  had  been  a  close  friend  of  his 
mother's,  cautioned  him  in  private  against  Colonel  Osborne. 
In  the  carriage  on  the  way  home  he  asked  why  he  had  not  been 
told  of  Sir  Marmaduke 's  coming,  and  when  he  discovered  that 
Osborne  had  requested  it  to  be  kept  secret  for  the  time  he  for- 
bade his  wife  to  see  Colonel  Osborne  again,  and  accused  her  of 
forfeiting  her  reputation  by  her  familiarity  with  the  Colonel. 
He  then  demanded  her  solemn  assurance  of  obedience,  which 
she,  feeling  herself  deeply  insulted,  declined  to  give,  and  Nora's 
endeavors  to  explain  effected  nothing  in  her  sister's  behalf. 


54  HE  KNEW  HE  WAS  RIGHT 

The  next  day  Emily  left  on  his  library  table  a  brief  note  from 
Osborne  saying  that  the  matter  was  settled,  as  she  was  minded 
to  obey  her  husband  (though  refusing  the  exacted  promise),  and 
if  his  demand  had  included  a  requirement  that  she  should  re- 
ceive no  letters  from  the  Colonel,  she  would  not  have  opened 
this  one.  The  note  made  Trevelyan  angrier  than  before.  Why 
should  this  man  address  his  wife  as  "Dear  Emily"?  and  it 
seemed  clear  to  him  now  that  if  his  wife  would  not  give  him  this 
promise  they  must  be  separated.  The  more  he  thought  of  it, 
the  more  convinced  he  was  that  he  ought  not  to  yield  to  her. 
Let  her  once  yield  to  him,  and  then  his  kindness  should  begin 
and  there  should  be  no  limit  to  it.  He  accordingly  sent  a  note 
to  his  wife,  saying  that  he  should  dine  that  day  at  his  club  and 
requesting  that  she  should  not  willingly  see  Osborne  again, 
ending  with  the  asseveration  that,  as  he  was  doing  what  he 
thought  to  be  right,  he  could  not  stultify  himself  by  admitting 
that  he  had  been  wrong.  After  a  separation  of  two  days  a  rec- 
onciliation was  effected  through  Nora,  his  wife  assuring  him 
that  she  would  encourage  no  person  to  visit  the  house  of  whom 
he  disapproved.  He  tried  to  seem  pleased  with  this  degree  of 
submission,  but  told  the  servant  as  he  came  downstairs  to  din- 
ner that  if  Colonel  Osborne  should  call  again  he  should  be  told 
that  Mrs.  Trevelyan  was  not  at  home. 

As  they  sat  at  dinner  the  next  day  a  note  arrived  from  Os- 
borne, which  the  servant  placed  at  Emily's  plate.  As  soon  as 
the  man  had  left  the  room  Mrs.  Trevelyan  handed  the  note  to 
her  sister,  saying: 

"  Will  you  give  that  to  Louis  ?  It  comes  from  the  man  whom 
he  supposes  to  be  my  lover." 

As  soon  as  he  was  alone  Trevelyan  opened  the  letter,  which 
contained  nothing  objectionable,  except  the  "Dear  Emily,"  and 
merely  announced  that  Sir  Marmaduke's  trip  to  England  could 
not  be  arranged  for  as  was  hoped.  He  felt  that  he  had  created 
for  himself  a  terrible  trouble.  He  must  tell  his  wife  what  was 
in  the  letter,  but  the  very  telling  it  would  be  a  renewing  of  the 
soreness  of  his  wound.  Then,  too,  the  Colonel  had  said  that 
he  would  call  on  Sunday  at  luncheon-time  as  usual,  and  Trevel- 
yan knew  that  were  his  wife  denied  at  that  hour  Colonel  Os- 
borne would  understand  what  the  difficulty  had  been.     Mrs. 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  55 

Trevelyan  declined  to  read  the  letter,  and  Nora  read  it  aloud. 
Mr.  Trevelyan  now  announced  that  she  might  admit  Osborne 
the  next  day  and  thank  him  for  his  efforts  regarding  Sir  Mar- 
maduke's  return,  but  was  met  by  her  reply  that  she  should  not 
remain  in  the  room  if  Osborne  were  admitted.  Angry  words 
followed  on  both  sides,  and  when  Nora  asked  Emily  why  she 
could  not  admit  the  Colonel  as  usual,  her  sister  responded: 

"  Because  Louis  has  made  me  promise  that  I  will  never  will- 
ingly be  in  his  company  again.  I  would  have  given  the  world 
to  avoid  a  promise  so  disgraceful  to  me ;  but  it  was  exacted  and 
it  shall  be  kept." 

The  Colonel  did  come  in  for  luncheon,  but  Mrs.  Trevelyan 
was  not  present.  Later  in  the  day,  when  the  Trevelyans  and 
Nora  were  walking  in  the  park,  they  accidentally  encountered 
Osborne  and  Hugh  Stanbury,  a  friend  of  Trevelyan's  much  in 
love  with  Nora  Rowley.  On  this  occasion  Mrs.  Trevelyan's 
manner  to  the  Colonel  was  so  pointedly  uncivil  that  it  was  im- 
possible for  him  not  to  perceive  the  incivility,  and  Trevelyan 
told  himself  that  his  wife's  outward  compliance  with  his  com- 
mand, was  useless  unless  she  complied  in  spirit. 

Matters  became  more  difficult  with  each  day,  and  a  fortnight 
later  Stanbury  encountered  Osborne  just  as  the  Colonel  was 
leaving  Trevelyan's.  Osborne  expressed  his  regret  at  the  mis- 
understanding, calling  Trevelyan  a  confounded  fool,  and  when 
Stanbury  made  his  call  upon  the  sisters  Mrs.  Trevelyan  asked 
Hugh  to  be  her  messenger  to  Trevelyan.  The  husband  was  to 
be  told  that  if  he  chose  she  would  consent  that  Osborne  be  asked 
never  to  come  into  her  presence  again;  or,  if  he  chose,  she  would 
continue  to  receive  her  father's  old  friend  as  usual;  but  that  she 
would  not  put  up  with  an  imputation  on  her  conduct  because 
her  husband  did  not  like  the  manner  in  which  the  gentleman 
thought  fit  to  address  her.  Hugh  took  the  message,  the  im- 
mediate result  of  which  was  a  quarrel  between  the  friends. 

Osborne  had  no  desire  to  run  off  with  his  old  friend's  daugh- 
ter, but  his  vanity  was  pleased  at  being,  as  he  thought,  the  con- 
fidential friend  of  a  pretty  woman,  and  the  fact  of  the  husband's 
jealousy  increased  his  pleasure  to  some  extent.  He  accordingly 
wrote  to  Mrs.  Trevelyan,  asking  whether  he  were  to  be  con- 
sidered a  banished  man,  and  when  the  note  arrived  she  was 


56  HE  KNEW  HE  WAS  RIGHT 

saying  to  herself  that  if  her  husband  laid  any  command  upon 
her  she  would  obey  it,  but  she  would  protest  that  she  was  being 
ill-used.  Moreover,  she  would  see  Colonel  Osborne  when  he 
called  unless  Louis  gave  some  clearly  intelligible  order  other- 
wise. She  answered  Osborne's  letter,  saying  that  as  far  as  she 
was  concerned  she  wished  for  no  change,  and  her  husband  saw 
the  letter  awaiting  the  postman.  A  stormy  scene  followed,  in 
which  Trevelyan  forbade  her  seeing  Osborne,  writing  to  him,  or 
having  any  communication  with  him,  and  insisted  that  she 
should  put  under  cover  to  him,  unopened,  any  letter  that  might 
come  from  Osborne.  In  response  to  this,  his  wife  declared  that 
she  would  make  no  promise  exacted  in  so  disgraceful  a  manner. 
Nora  told  her  later  that  she  ought  to  give  way  and  tell  her  hus- 
band the  contents  of  her  note  to  the  Colonel;  but  Emily  declared 
such  submission,  as  implying  that  her  husband  was  right,  was 
impossible  for  her.  He  had  said  they  must  part,  and  she  sup- 
posed it  would  be  better  so. 

Trevelyan' s  next  step  was  a  further  remonstrance  with  his 
wife  regarding  what  he  considered  her  misconduct.  This  was 
communicated  by  letter,  as  was  also  the  announcement  that  he 
had  asked  Lady  Milborough  to  call  upon  her  and  give  her  suit- 
able advice.  Mrs.  Trevelyan  was  very  angry  at  this,  and  she 
made  the  ambassadress  very  uncomfortable  while  on  her  errand. 
For  her  part.  Lady  Milborough,  disappointed  as  she  was  in  her 
mission,  began  to  perceive  that  the  husband  was  not  altogether 
in  the  right.  The  same  day  the  Trevelyans  saw  each  other  in 
the  library,  the  wife  feeling  acutely  how  ill  she  had  been  used, 
and  the  husband  convinced  that  justice  was  on  his  side.  Neither 
would  yield,  and  the  household  was  presently  broken  up,  Louis 
assuring  his  wife  that  she  might  live  where  she  pleased  in  the 
country,  not  in  London,  and  that  he  would  arrange  that  Osborne 
should  not  see  her.  Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  by  midsummer 
Mrs.  Trevelyan,  with  her  sister  and  baby,  was  established  in 
Nuncombe  Putney  in  Devonshire,  under  the  protection  of  Hugh 
Stanbury's  mother  and  sister  Priscilla.  It  had  been  at  first 
suggested  that  the  sisters  should  take  refuge  with  their  aunt, 
Mrs.  Outhouse,  until  Sir  Marmaduke  should  arrive  from  the 
Mandarins,  but  Mr.  Outhouse  had  so  plainly  told  Emily  she  was 
wrong  that  the  plan  was  abandoned.    This  scheme  failing, 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE 


57 


Trevelyan  made  up  his  quarrel  with  Hugh  and  in  consequence 
the  Nuncombe  Putney  arrangement  was  made.  In  order  to 
carry  this  out,  the  Stanburys  had  left  their  own  cottage  and 
hired  the  much  larger  residence  known  as  the  Clock  House. 

In  a  very  short  time  news  came  to  Exeter  that  Colonel  Os- 
borne had  been  a  guest  at  the  Clock  House,  but  in  this  rumor 
was  mistaken.  The  visitor  was  Mr.  Glascock,  who  would  some 
day  become  Lord  Peterborough,  and  his  object  in  coming  was 
to  offer  himself  to  Nora  Rowley  a  second  time.  As  Nora  loved 
Hugh  Stanbury,  she  declined  Mr.  Glascock's  offer,  although 
she  did  not  disguise  from  herself  its  attractions.  The  mistake 
occasioned  a  peppery  correspondence  between  Miss  Jemima 
Stanbury  and  her  relations  at  Nuncombe  Putney,  and  Priscilla 
triumphed  over  her  aunt's  discomfiture.  But  the  triumph  was 
short-lived.  Colonel  Osborne,  under  pretense  of  visiting  a 
friend  in  Devonshire,  wrote  Mrs.  Trevelyan  of  his  intended  tour 
and  of  his  wish  to  call  upon  her  while  in  her  neighborhood,  and 
in  reply  Mrs.  Trevelyan  wrote  him  that  he  must  use  his  own 
judgment  in  the  matter,  but  gave  him  little  encouragement. 
The  call  was  made,  and  Priscilla  felt  herself  obliged  to  inform 
her  aunt  of  the  circumstance.  Miss  Jemima  was  not  malicious, 
though  prejudiced,  and  she  perceived  that  her  relatives  might 
not  have  been  able  to  help  themselves  in  the  matter  of  admitting 
the  Colonel  to  the  Clock  House.  She  frankly  admitted  this  in 
her  letter  to  Priscilla  and  advised  her  to  get  rid  of  the  sisters. 

Trevelyan  in  the  mean  time  was  employing  a  private  detec- 
tive named  Bozzle,  and  that  person  informed  him  promptly  of 
Osborne's  call  at  the  Clock  House.  Trevelyan  felt  that  he  was 
having  recourse  to  base  expedients,  but  in  his  dire  perplexity  he 
saw  no  other  course  open  to  him.  Stanbury  implored  him  to 
dismiss  Bozzle,  but  in  vain.  Of  course,  he  told  himself,  Stan- 
bury would  take  the  part  of  a  woman  with  whose  sister  he  was 
in  love.  He  was  paying  a  rogue  to  watch  the  steps  of  a  man 
whom  he  hated,  yet  what  could  he  do?  How  was  he  to  have 
avoided  the  employment  of  some  such  man  as  Bozzle?  That 
night  he  wrote  to  his  wife  that  her  conduct  in  regard  to  Osborne 
had  made  it  needful  she  should  leave  Mrs.  Stanbury's  house, 
and  that  he  should  immediately  seek  another  home  for  her. 
Should  there  be  any  further  communication  with  Osborne,  her 


58  HE  KNEW  HE  WAS  RIGHT 

child  would  be  taken  from  her  and  her  allowance  limited  to  a 
mere  sustenance.  He  showed  the  letter  to  Lady  Milborough, 
who  vainly  begged  him  not  to  send  it. 

Trevelyan's  letter  to  his  wife  fell  like  a  thunderbolt  among 
them  at  Nuncombe  Putney,  and  her  anger  was  very  great.  She 
wrote  to  Colonel  Osborne,  saying  that  her  husband  had  forbidden 
her  to  see  or  write  to  him  or  hear  from  him  again,  and  this  letter 
she  enclosed  to  her  husband.  To  Trevelyan  she  wrote  that  she 
would  obey  him  to  the  best  of  her  power,  and  she  enclosed  copies 
of  all  the  correspondence  with  the  Colonel  since  she  had  left 
London.  Save  the  Outhouses,  the  sisters  had  no  relatives  in 
England,  and  after  some  difficulty,  for  Mr.  Outhouse  and  his 
wife  were  very  doubtful  of  their  duty  in  the  matter,  Trevelyan 
arranged  that  his  wife  and  Nora  should  find  a  home  at  St. 
Diddulph's  rectory  till  Sir  Marmaduke's  return  in  the  spring. 
The  Outhouses  insisted  that  the  sisters  should  come  as  their 
guests,  and  Trevelyan  declared  that  he  should  pay  their  ex- 
penses at  the  rectory,  and  in  the  end  his  will  prevailed.  The 
rector  was  a  poor  man,  paying  his  way  as  his  money  came  to 
him,  and  sharing  the  proceeds  of  his  parish  with  the  poor. 

The  day  after  the  sisters'  arrival  Stanbury  called  with  a  mes- 
sage from  Trevelyan  that  the  child  was  to  be  taken  to  his  father 
for  an  hour,  Trevelyan  in  fact  awaiting  him  at  a  neighboring 
inn.  Hugh  accordingly  took  the  boy  to  his  father  and  brought 
him  back.  Trevelyan  said  bitterly  that  it  was  cruel  to  have  to 
part  with  his  boy  so  soon,  and  Hugh  replied  that  the  remedy 
was  in  his  own  hands.  The  wretched  man  was  now  so  used  to 
being  told  by  everyone  that  he  was  in  the  wrong  that  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  hide  himself  abroad  and  that  no  one  but  Bozzle 
should  know  his  address.  Nothing  on  earth  should  make  him 
yield  to  a  woman  who  had  ill-treated  him — nothing  but  con- 
fession and  promise  of  amendment  on  her  part.  All  persons 
with  whom  he  had  had  to  do,  save  Bozzle,  had  been  false  to  him, 
and  when  he  left  for  the  Continent  only  Bozzle  knew  where  to 
reach  him.  In  the  midst  of  all  his  misery  it  never  occurred  to 
him  whether  it  were  possible  that  his  friends  were  right  and 
himself  wrong,  and  while  bemoaning  his  cruel  lot  he  employed 
Bozzle  to  ascertain  how  far  that  cruelty  extended.  In  the  course 
of  bis  wanderings  he  fell  in  with  Mr.  Glascock^  to  whom  he 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  59 

related  his  woes,  but  they  parted  at  Turin,  where  he  awaited 
intelligence  from  Bozzle. 

At  the  end  of  September  Colonel  Osborne  called  on  Mr. 
Outhouse  and  said  that  he  did  not  ask  to  see  Mrs.  Trevelyan  but 
evidently  he  thought  it  possible  he  might  see  her;  and  of 'this 
visit  Bozzle  duly  informed  his  employer.     Bozzle  of  course  could 
not  know  that  Osborne  did  not  see  Mrs.  Trevelyan,  but  he  wrote 
to  Trevelyan  that  in  his  opinion  such  a  meeting  took  place. 
Thereupon  Trevelyan  wrote  to  Mr.  Outhouse  a  letter  fuU  of 
reproaches,  accusing  him  of  having  betrayed  a  trust,  and  adding 
that  he  should  take  steps  to  have  his  child  removed.    Mr.  Out- 
house was  made  very  indignant  by  the  receipt  of  this  letter,  and 
although  he  explained  that  Osborne  saw  only  himself  at  the 
rectory,  he  informed  Trevelyan  that  he  should  not  show  the 
husband's  letter  to  his  niece.    Trevelyan's  lawyer  assured  him 
that  nothing  could  be  done  about  the  child  till  the  father's  return 
to  England,  and  Trevelyan  at  once  concluded  that  his  lawyer 
had  been  bribed  by  Osborne.    The  threat  about  the  chHd  was 
not  altogether  idle,  for  in  January  Bozzle,  at  the  request  of 
Trevelyan,  caUed  on  Mr.  Outhouse  to  demand  the  custody  of 
the  chHd.    The  parson  ordered  him  out  of  the  house  (which 
Bozzle  probably  expected);  but  though  he  caUed  Bozzle  a  knave 
and  Trevelyan  a  madman,  stiU  he  considered  Colonel  Osborne 
the  chief  sinner  and  that  Emily  had  behaved  badly.    Trevelyan 
remained  in  northern  Italy  tiU  the  middle  of  March,  constantly 
telegraphing  to  Bozzle  to  get  possession  of  the  child;  but  the 
detective,  by  the  advice  of  Mrs.  Bozzle,  made  no  further  personal 
application  for  the  boy  at  St.  Diddulph's,  and  when  Trevelyan 
returned  to  England  matters  remained  as  they  were.    He  was 
now  utterly  miserable;  his  nature  had  altered,  and  he  knew  it. 
His  eyes  were  downcast  and  his  gait  had  become  shuffling. 

Sir  Marmaduke  and  Lady  Rowley  arrived  in  April,  but 
before  they  came  Trevelyan  caUed  at  Saint  Diddulph's.  The 
clergyman  would  not  see  him,  but  Mrs.  Outhouse  did,  and 
Emily  consented,  through  her  aunt,  to  see  him.  Very  litde  was 
accomplished.  He  still  demanded  confession  of  wrong-doing 
and  promises  for  the  future,  and  these  she  refused,  and  because 
the  child  was  frightened  by  his  father's  melancholy  Trevelyan 
complained  that  the  boy  would  not  speak  to  him.    Rooms  at  a 


6o  HE  KNEW  HE  WAS  RIGHT 

private  hotel  had  been  engaged  for  the  Rowleys,  and  Emily  and 
Nora  were  to  join  their  parents  there;  but  as  the  sisters  were 
leaving  the  cab  the  boy  was  taken  from  them  in  pursuance  of  a 
stratagem  planned  by  Bozzle  and  his  employer.  After  this  there 
was  much  correspondence  between  the  Rowleys  and  Trevelyan, 
and  various  overtures  were  made,  but  to  little  purpose.  Lady 
Rowley  herself  had  an  interview  with  her  son-in-law,  in  which 
Trevelyan  told  her  that  her  daughter  must  be  crushed  in  spirit 
before  she  could  again  become  a  pure  and  happy  woman.  And 
this  made  Lady  Rowley  very  angry. 

For  some  time  after  this  Mrs.  Trevelyan  remained  in  ig- 
norance of  the  whereabouts  of  her  husband  and  child,  but 
through  Stanbury  his  address  was  discovered,  and  she  and  her 
mother  went  to  see  him.  She  was  permitted  to  see  her  child, 
and  although  she  implored  Trevelyan  to  let  all  be  forgotten,  the 
poor  madman,  for  such  he  had  almost  become,  still  insisted 
on  her  repentance.  He  loved  her  better  than  anything  else  in 
the  world,  yet  he  still  declared  that  there  had  been  positive  cause 
for  his  belief  in  her  misconduct.  Sir  Marmaduke  visited  him 
the  next  day,  and  although  he  had  said  bitter  things  of  his  son- 
in-law  the  fury  of  his  words  was  somewhat  stayed  when  he 
saw  the  poor,  weak,  passionate  creature  before  him. 

The  first  result  of  Sir  Marmaduke's  visit  was  to  send  Tre- 
velyan once  more  on  his  travels,  since  he  now  understood  that 
effort  would  be  made  to  deprive  him  of  his  child.  He  accord- 
ingly left  Willesden,  where  the  Rowleys  had  found  him,  and 
returned  to  Italy,  hiring  a  small  country  house  called  Casalunga, 
seven  miles  from  Siena.  The  Rowleys  were  by  this  time  in 
Italy,  and  Trevelyan^s  retreat  becoming  known  to  them  he  was 
visited  by  Sir  Marmaduke  and  Mr.  Glascock.  Trevelyan  per- 
mitted Mr.  Glascock  to  see  Louie,  evidently  because  it  was  ex- 
pedient that  someone  should  ascertain  that  the  child  was  well, 
but  he  would  not  allow  Sir  Marmaduke  to  do  so.  Mrs.  Tre- 
velyan might  come  without  her  father  to  see  her  child,  but  might 
not  return  to  live  with  her  husband  without  full  acknowledgment 
of  her  fault  and  promises  of  amended  life.  Emily  did  visit 
him  soon  afterward,  and  although  he  was  anxious  to  come  to 
terms  with  her,  that  at  his  death  Louie  should  not  be  unpro- 
tected, he  would  not  retreat — she  must  admit  her  sin. 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  6i 

After  she  left  him  he  sat  long  in  silent  thought  and  when  he 
was  alone  his  reflections  concerning  his  wife  were  much  juster 
than  his  words  to  her  or  to  others,  but  it  was  impossible  that 
he  should  yield.  His  unhinged  brain  presently  conceived  that 
he  might  sacrifice  himself,  however,  and  he  resolved  to  give 
up  Louie  to  his  mother.  Through  Mr.  Glascock  the  thing  was 
done.  Mr.  Glascock  advised  Mrs.  Trevelyan,  when  he  brought 
Louie  to  her,  that  she  should  own  to  anything  and  her  husband 
would  be  conquered  at  last.  On  this  she  resolved  to  stay  by 
herself  in  Italy,  visiting  her  husband  twice  a  week  at  Casalunga. 

In  the  mean  time  Sir  Marmaduke  had  consented  to  Nora's 
marriage  with  Stanbury,  and  the  Rowleys  were  soon  to  return 
to  the  Mandarins.  News  then  came  from  Emily  that  Trevelyan 
was  much  worse.  Stanbury  at  her  request  journeyed  to  Siena, 
and  together  they  brought  him  by  easy  stages  to  England.  Louis 
had  suspected  he  was  to  be  put  in  a  madhouse,  but  they  over- 
came this  fear.  She  had  confessed,  as  he  requested,  and  they 
were  to  occupy  a  cottage  in  Twickenham.  All  feeling  of  anger 
was  over  with  her  now.  He  still  maintained  that  he  had  been 
right,  and  his  wife  never  contradicted  him;  but  when  he  hinted 
that  if  she  married  again  she  must  be  more  careful  of  her  hus- 
band's honor,  she  protested. 

^'  Were  you  lying  when  you  acknowledged  that  you  had  been 
false  to  your  duties?" 

"If  I  acknowledged  that,  I  did  lie.  I  never  said  that,  but 
yet  I  did  lie,  believing  it  best  that  I  should  do  so." 

Though  it  should  kill  him,  she  must  tell  him  the  truth  now. 
"Will  you  listen,  Louis?  As  you  would  not  let  me  serve  you 
and  assist  you  to  come  here  where  you  are  safe,  unless  I  owned 
that  you  were  right,  I  said  you  had  been  right." 

After  this,  Trevelyan  grew  rapidly  worse,  and  his  wife  never 
left  him.  Before  he  left  her  forever  would  he  tell  her  that  he 
had  not  doubted  her  faith?  On  the  last  night  of  his  life  she 
spoke  to  him  softly: 

"Louis,  can  you  say  one  word  for  your  wife,  dear,  dear, 
dearest  husband?" 

"What  word?" 

"I  have  not  been  a  harlot  to  you;  have  I?" 

"What  name  is  that?" 


62 


HE  KNEW  HE  WAS  RIGHT 


"But  what  a  thing,  Louis!  Kiss  my  hand,  Louis,  if  you 
believe  me." 

And  very  gently  she  laid  the  tips  of  her  fingers  on  his  lips. 
For  a  moment  or  two  she  waited,  and  the  kiss  did  not  come. 
Would  he  spare  her  in  this  last  moment  left  to  him  either  for 
justice  or  for  mercy?  She  had  time  to  think  that  were  she  once 
to  withdraw  her  hand,  she  would  be  condemned  forever — and 
that  it  must  be  withdrawn.  But  at  last  the  lips  moved,  and 
with  struggling  ear  she  could  hear  the  sound  of  the  tongue  within, 
and  the  verdict  of  the  dying  man  had  been  given  in  her  favor. 
He  never  spoke  a  word  more,  either  to  annul  it  or  to  enforce  it. 
At  last  the  maniac  was  dead,  and  in  his  last  moments  he  had 
made  such  reparation  as  was  in  his  power  for  the  evil  he  had 
done. 


JOHN   TOWNSEND   TROWBRIDGE 

(United  States,  1827) 
NEIGHBOR  JACKWOOD   (1857) 

In  the  summer  of  1854,  while  John  Townsend  Trowbridge  was  spending 
some  weeks  at  an  old  farmhouse  in  Wallingford,  Vermont,  writing  Martin 
Merrivale,  the  idea  of  an  anti-slavery  fiction  was  slowly  taking  shape  in  his 
mind.  One  day  while  roaming  near  the  confluence  of  Otter  Creek  and  Mad 
River  (which  became  Huntersford  Creek  and  Wild  River  in  Neighbor  Jackwood 
and  the  scene  of  the  fishing  adventure  of  Mr.  Jackwood  and  Bim),  fancy  showed 
him  rising  from  the  tall  grass  the  figure  of  an  old  hag,  or,  as  it  seemed  later,  a 
beautiful  girl  in  disguise,  "a  mystery  to  be  accounted  for."  The  phantom- 
like projection  of  fancy  took  its  place  immediately  in  the  plan  of  the  story  to  be 
written,  the  first  few  chapters  being  composed  in  the  old  farmhouse.  Laid 
aside  for  a  time,  it  was  taken  by  the  author  to  Europe  in  the  spring  of  1855. 
He  soon  settled  down  in  the  Parisian  suburb  of  Passy,  and  there  the  book  was 
completed,  the  author  and  a  friend,  who  afterward  became  well  known  as 
Professor  Monroe  of  the  Boston  School  of  Oratory,  daily  discussing  its  incidents 
and  characters  as  the  successive  chapters  were  composed.  Once  finished,  a 
score  or  more  of  titles  were  suggested  and  rejected,  but  after  Jackwood  had  been 
decided  upon,  the  scriptural  passage,  "A  certain  woman  went  down  to  Jericho, 
and  fell  among  thieves,"  was  thought  of  for  the  title-page.  This  evoked  the 
question,  "Who  was  neighbor  unto  this  woman?"  and  the  answer:  "Neighbor 
Jackwood."  The  success  of  the  novel  led  the  author  to  dramatize  it  for  the 
Boston  Museum  stage,  William  H.  Smith,  a  veteran  actor,  taking  the  title  r6le, 
and  the  famous  comedian,  William  Warren,  that  of  Enos  Crumlett.  We  pre- 
sent the  venerable  author's  own  shortened  version  of  this  favorite  story. 


N  the  valley  of  Huntersford  Creek  was  situated 
the  home  of  Abimelech  Jackwood,  a  Vermont 
farmer,  whose  family  consisted  of  himself  and 
wife,  his  daughter  Phcebe,  a  girl  of  sixteen,  and 
his  son  Abimelech,  commonly  called  Bim,  a 
twelve-year-old.  Father  and  son  had  gone  on  a 
fishing  expedition,  at  the  close  of  which  Mr.  Jack- 
wood  suddenly  encountered  an  old  woman,  seem- 
ingly, who  had  lost  her  way  and  implored  his 
assistance.  Assured  that  she  could  trust  him,  she  admitted  that 
she  had  been  obliged  to  disguise  herself  for  safety,  and  accord- 

63 


64  NEIGHBOR   JACKWOOD 

ingly  removed  her  spectacles,  cap,  and  gray  wig,  washed  off  in 
the  stream  the  simulated  wrinkles  on  her  face,  and  showed  her- 
self to  be  a  beautiful  young  woman.  A  thunder-storm  coming 
up  drove  them  all  to  the  Jackwood  farmhouse  for  shelter.  Mrs. 
Jackwood  readily  consented  that  the  stranger,  who  gave  her 
name  as  Charlotte  Woods,  should  remain  for  the  night.  At 
supper,  overcome  by  fatigue  and  the  kindness  of  her  new 
friends,  Charlotte  fainted,  and  in  the  subsequent  confusion  it 
was  discovered  that  she  had  a  knife-wound  in  her  breast. 
The  sympathies  of  the  Jackwood  family  were  by  this  time 
fully  enlisted  in  her  behalf,  and  it  was  soon  settled  that  the 
stranger  should  remain  with  them  for  the  present.  Desirous 
to  return  their  kindness  as  far  as  possible,  Charlotte  assisted 
in  the  family  occupations  indoors  and  quickly  endeared  herself 
to  all. 

A  few  days  went  by  and  Mrs.  Rigglesty,  the  mother  of  Mrs. 
Jackwood,  arrived  on  a  visit,  a  fault-finding,  ill-tempered  old 
woman,  who  quickly  introduced  discord  into  the  household. 
From  morning  till  night  she  was  perpetually  scolding  the  chil- 
dren and  nagging  their  parents,  and  by  some  crossed-grained 
logic  of  her  own  she  contrived  to  hold  Charlotte  responsible  for 
everything  that  went  wrong-^the  noisy  pump,  the  intruding 
poultry,  the  dog's  clumsy  gambols,  and  the  imputed  laziness 
of  Mr.  Jackwood  and  Bim.  Such  treatment  greatly  distressed 
Charlotte,  but  the  family  consoled. 

Mrs.  Rigglesty  was  inquisitive,  and  while  prying  about  she 
discovered  an  old  gown  with  spectacles,  gray  wig,  and  cap  in  the 
packet.  She  at  once  recalled  seeing,  while  at  her  son  Jacob's 
a  week  earlier,  a  woman  wearing  the  same  gown  and  gray  wig, 
and  speedily  denounced  Charlotte  as  an  impostor,  to  the  Jack- 
woods'  consternation.  Charlotte  declined  to  make  explana- 
tions, but  declared  she  had  not  willingly  deceived,  that  misfor- 
tune had  brought  her  there  and  made  her  what  she  was.  The 
Jackwoods,  to  Mrs.  Rigglesty's  discomfiture,  stood  by  their 
guest,  who  insisted  that  she  could  not  remain  to  cause  dissension; 
but  for  once  Mr.  Jackwood's  quiet  spirit  was  roused,  and  he 
declared  that  before  he  would  see  Charlotte  leave  his  roof  he 
would  give  the  old  lady  her  "walking-ticket"  and  pack  her  off 
by  the  morning  stage.    To  pacify  him,  Charlotte  consented  to 


JOHN  TOWNSEND  TROWBRIDGE  65 

remain  over  night,  but  reflection  confirmed  her  resolution  and 
in  the  early  morning  she  departed  unseen. 

Some  little  time  before  these  events,  Hector  Dunbury,  whose 
father  was  a  neighbor  of  the  Jackwoods,  while  in  a  saloon  in 
Mobile  had  been  involved  in  a  dispute  with  a  physician  named 
Tanwood,  who  attacked  him  with  a  knife.  In  defense  Hector 
had  hurled  his  glass  at  the  other's  head,  inflicting  a  wound  that 
temporarily  disabled  him.  A  third  person,  named  Dickson, 
was  also  involved  in  the  encounter.  In  the  confusion  Dunbury 
walked  away  and  shortly  afterward  appeared  at  his  Vermont 
home,  where  Bertha  Wing,  the  daughter  of  a  neighbor  and  a 
playmate  of  his  childhood,  was  caring  for  his  invalid  mother. 
Bertha  was  engaged  to  young  Rukely,  the  village  minister. 
Soon  after  Hector's  arrival  she  returned  to  her  home,  where 
Charlotte  had  found  temporary  refuge  on  leaving  the  Jack- 
woods.'  It  was  arranged  that  Charlotte  should  take  Bertha's 
place  at  Mrs.  Dunbury's,  and  she  and  Hector  speedily  became 
friends,  the  young  man  being  unaware  that  they  had  once  cas- 
ually met  at  the  house  of  Tanwood  in  Mobile.  At  one  time  he 
taxed  her  with  distrusting  him,  and  in  reply  she  declared  that 
there  was  a  gulf  between  them  the  nature  of  which  she  could 
not  reveal.  This  troubled  him,  and  when  he  happened  to  en- 
counter Mrs.  Rigglesty  that  day  the  old  woman  not  only  told 
him  of  Charlotte's  disguise  and  exposure  at  the  Jackwoods', 
but  confidently  identified  her  with  a  girl  at  North  Nincum  who 
had  disgraced  her  family  and  fled  from  home.  From  that  day 
Hector's  treatment  of  Charlotte  was  marked  by  strange  incon- 
sistencies. Sometimes  his  manner  was  irresistibly  gentle,  or  his 
assumed  indifference  chilled  her  like  the  north  wind. 

The  invalid,  who  had  grown  much  attached  to  Charlotte, 
perceived  Hector's  interest  in  her  and  gladly  encouraged  it. 
The  two  attended  a  village  wedding  at  which  was  recited  a  con- 
gratulatory poem  by  its  youthful  author,  Etty  Greenwich,  the 
thirteen-year-old  daughter  of  a  narrow-minded  village  justice. 
The  substance  of  the  poem  was,  that  the  happy  pair  were  "a 
strong  oak  and  a  graceful  vine  yoked  together  in  the  car  of 
matrimony,  and  sailing  over  a  sapphire  ocean,  in  a  little  Eden 
of  their  own,  full  of  flowery  fountains,  rainbows,  the  prodigal 
son,  and  the  wise  virgins  with  oil  in  their  lamps."  There 
A.D.,  VOL.  xvn. — 5 


66  NEIGHBOR  JACKWOOD 

was  much  applause  and  the  village  genius*  head  was  quite 
turned. 

Among  the  guests  was  one  whose  appearance  strangely 
startled  Charlotte,  and  to  avoid  him  she  passed  into  another 
room,  which  was  dimly  lighted,  and  there  found  Etty  in  tears 
lest  her  brother  Robert,  who  had  been  away  from  home  for  a 
year  and  was  a  guest  that  night,  should  not  care  to  see  her. 
Charlotte  comforted  her,  as  did  Hector  when  he  entered.  Rob- 
ert Greenwich  next  came  in,  saying  that  he  was  in  search  of  his 
sister,  greeting  Hector  at  the  same  time,  and  giving  a  keen  glance 
at  Charlotte.  On  the  way  home  Hector  said  that  Greenwich 
had  told  him  that  he  would  call  on  the  morrow.  That  she  had 
been  recognized  by  the  man  she  dreaded  Charlotte  could  not 
doubt;  but  misgivings  chilled  her  heart  and  sealed  her  lips,  and 
sent  her  to  her  room  with  the  heavy  secret  of  her  life  still  pent 
up  in  her  soul. 

Phoebe,  Bertha,  Mr.  Rukely,  and  Charlotte  on  an  excursion 
in  the  woods  next  day  were  driven  for  shelter  in  a  thimder-storm 
to  a  sugar-shed,  as  were  likewise,  later,  Robert  and  Hector,  who 
had  been  hunting.  Robert  was  introduced  to  Charlotte  and 
sitting  down  beside  her  observed  with  peculiar  emphasis  that 
they  might  have  met  in  stranger  circumstances.  He  then  said, 
"  Keep  my  secret  and  I  will  keep  yours,"  and  when  opportunity 
offered  added  that  he  had  spent  the  summer  in  search  of  her; 
that  nothing  could  exhaust  his  love  which  was  centered  in  her; 
and  that  he  would  not  let  her  go.  She  responded  that  she  looked 
for  no  mercy  at  his  hands,  whereupon  he  asked  her  to  consent 
to  see  him  again  and  hear  his  explanation. 

After  this  Robert  called  often  at  the  Dunburys',  always  ask- 
ing for  Hector,  and  on  one  occasion  obtained  a  few  moments' 
private  conversation  with  Charlotte.  This  aroused  Hector's 
jealousy,  and  he  reproached  her  so  bitterly  that  in  order  to  show 
him  how  deeply  he  misjudged  her  she  told  him  the  secret  of  her 
life.  He  then  left  the  house,  was  gone  many  hours,  and  re- 
turning announced  his  speedy  departure  from  home.  There 
had  been  many  differences  between  Hector  and  his  father,  a 
moody,  disappointed  man,  who  at  times  drank  heavily,  but  the 
two  were  now  seemingly  reconciled.  Mrs.  Dunbury  assured 
her  son  that  Charlotte  loved  him  with  her  whole  soul,  but  be- 


JOHN  TOWNSEND  TROWBRIDGE  67 

lieving  her  presence  was  driving  him  from  home  had  gone  tem- 
porarily to  the  Jack  woods'. 

Robert  Greenwich  soon  found  his  way  to  the  Jackwoods', 
and  pretending  an  interest  in  Phoebe  secured  occasional  inter- 
views with  Charlotte.  He  assured  her  that  Hector  had  gone  to 
California  and  had  mentioned  her  name  in  his  letter  in  a  slight- 
ing fashion;  he  protested  his  own  sincerity  and  his  wish  to  make 
her  his  wife,  and  was  met  by  her  determined  answer  that  she 
could  not  give  herself  to  one  she  did  not  love.  Her  scorn  en- 
raged him,  but  the  appearance  of  Phoebe  obliged  him  to  conceal 
his  anger.  That  same  night  Charlotte  went  to  Mr.  Jackwood 
for  advice  and  obtained  his  ready  promise  of  assistance.  The 
next  morning  he  drove  with  her  to  the  nearest  railway  station 
and  the  train  soon  bore  her  northward.  Once  when  the  train 
stopped  at  a  way  station  she  saw  Robert  on  the  platform.  He 
reccfgnized  her,  entered  the  car,  and  seated  himself  by  her  side. 
At  the  terminus  the  passengers  were  about  to  take  a  steamboat 
on  Lake  Champlain,  but  through  the  singular  interposition  of  a 
harmless  deranged  man,  encountered  on  the  journey,  Robert 
was  prevented  from  embarking,  and  the  boat,  with  Charlotte 
on  board,  sailed  without  him. 

In  Montreal  Charlotte  found  refuge  with  some  connections 
of  the  Dunburys,  and  in  their  home  subsequently  encountered 
the  deranged  man,  whom  she  now  knew  to  be  Edward  Long- 
man, a  son  of  the  house.  Hector  came  to  see  her  at  the  Long- 
mans^  and  Robert  called  there  also.  She  received  him  with 
scorn  and  commanded  him  to  leave  her.  At  this  moment  Hec- 
tor entered  the  room,  accused  him  of  wronging  Charlotte,  and 
denounced  him  as  a  villain.  The  men  then  went  out  together, 
and  when  Hector  returned  he  said  that  Robert  had  pledged  his 
word  not  to  go  back  to  Huntersford.  There  was,  then,  nothing 
to  prevent  Charlotte  returning  and  remaining  with  Mrs.  Dun- 
bury.  She  would  be  safe  there  while  he  journeyed  south  to 
forestall  Robert's  designs  by  striking  at  the  root  of  his  power. 

Charlotte  and  Hector  returned  under  somewhat  untoward 
conditions.  Mr.  Dunbury,  while  in  liquor,  had  met  with  a  se- 
rious accident,  and  the  shock  had  made  his  wife  more  ill  than 
before.  Hector  found  his  father  in  a  state  of  sullen  discontent, 
complaining  that  Charlotte  came  to  the  house  a  servant,  but 


68  NEIGHBOR   JACKWOOD 

that  one  would  think  she  was  now  mistress  of  the  house.  As 
soon  as  he  felt  that  he  could  leave  his  father,  Hector  set  off, 
though  he  was  much  disturbed  on  discovering  that  Robert  had 
broken  his  promise  and  was  again  in  Huntersford.  During 
Hector's  absence  Edward  Longman  appeared,  wild  and  in- 
coherent as  when  Charlotte  first  saw  him,  and  from  his  words 
Mr.  Dunbury  ascertained  that  Hector  and  Charlotte  were  mar- 
ried, Edward  having  been  an  unsuspected  witness  of  the  cere- 
mony. *'What  is  this,  I  say?"  roared  Mr.  Dunbury.  "Have 
I  been  duped?  Has  my  son  married  my  servant?"  His  rage 
and  the  fury  of  his  speech  smote  Charlotte  like  a  blow. 

Etty  Greenwich  had  been  very  fond  of  her  brother,  but  was 
deeply  wounded  by  his  treatment  of  her  after  his  long  absence. 
He  had  ridiculed  her  verses,  but  although  in  this  and  in  other 
ways  he  gave  her  pain,  her  attachment  had  not  lessened  though 
it  had  been  put  to  a  cruel  test  when  on  one  occasion  he  struck 
her  and  sent  her  from  him.  She  had  no  school  companions, 
as  she  studied  under  her  father's  direction,  and  Charlotte  was 
the  only  person  whose  sympathy  she  had  much  desire  for.  On 
a  certain  evening  she  had  unavoidably  overheard  a  conversation 
between  her  brother  and  some  companions  which  revealed  a 
great  but  vague  danger  that  threatened  Charlotte.  With  some 
difficulty,  Etty  managed  the  next  day  to  warn  Charlotte,  and 
the  latter  prepared  to  leave  the  Dunbury  house  without  delay. 
The  warm-hearted  maid-servant,  Bridget,  readily  compre- 
hended some  part  of  the  threatened  danger  and  undertook  to 
harness  the  horse  and  drive  off  with  Charlotte,  when  Edward 
appeared,  and  with  a  shrewdness  that  often  flashed  out  of  his 
disordered  wits,  evolved  a  stratagem  to  deceive  the  three  pur- 
suers who  were  already  driving  into  the  Dunbury  yard.  He 
and  the  others  were  now  in  the  barn,  and  while  Charlotte  and 
Etty  hid  behind  a  manger  Edward  leaped  into  the  cutter  with 
Bridget  and  drove  away.  The  pursuers,  supposing  Charlotte 
to  be  beside  him,  drove  frantically  after,  purposely  delayed  at 
the  gate  by  the  farm-boy,  who  had  shut  it  in  their  faces.  At 
length  Edward's  cutter  was  overtaken  by  the  men,  who  at- 
tempted to  drag  his  companion  from  the  sleigh.  Edward  gave 
a  wild  laugh,  and  Dickson  stared,  as  struggling  through  a  mass 
of  tangled  hair  appeared  the  red  features  of — ^Bridget ! 


-^     ~*«>«  IIW  I 


JOHN  TOWNSEND  TROWBRIDGE  69 

While  Dickson  and  his  companion  were  pursuing  the  cutter, 
Oliver  Dole,  the  constable,  was  assuring  the  Dunburys  that  the 
law  must  take  its  course,  adding  that  if  Mr.  Dunbury  had  an- 
other horse  in  the  stable  he  would  join  the  pursuit.  For  answer 
Dunbury  led  the  way  to  the  barn,  where  Dole  discovered  a  sec- 
ond horse  on  which  he  mounted  and  rode  off.  Etty,  waiting  at 
the  barn  entrance,  came  to  Mr.  Dunbury  imploring  him  to  hide 
Charlotte.  The  man  paid  no  attention  to  the  pleading  child, 
but  raising  his  arm  cried  out  to  Charlotte:  "Begone!  Lose 
yourself,  save  yourself,  I  care  not — ^but  begone!" 

Charlotte  arose  and  fled.  There  was  a  cow-path  trodden 
through  the  snow,  leading  across  the  meadows;  this  she  took. 
The  snow  lay  deep  in  the  valley,  but  it  had  been  thawing  all  day; 
and  now  the  slow,  dull,  wintry  rain  began  to  fall.  With  pain 
and  difficulty,  often  slipping  and  falling,  she  followed  the  slumpy 
cattle -track  to  the  banks  of  the  creek,  where  there  were  willows 
that  might  conceal  her  flight.  She  could  see  the  roof  of  the 
Jackwood  home  in  the  dim  distance,  and  had  a  half-formed 
hope  of  reaching  it  in  the  deepening  dusk;  for  now  the  short 
winter's  day  was  drawing  to  a  close. 

She  had  fallen  in  utter  exhaustion  by  a  fence,  when  the  bark 
of  a  dog  and  approaching  footsteps  startled  her.  The  comers 
were  the  boy,  Bim  Jackwood,  and  his  dog  Rover.  The  animal 
yelped  furiously  at  the  dark  object  by  the  fence,  but  when  she 
rose  up  and  spoke  his  name  he  recognized  her  joyously.  Bim 
hurried  to  the  spot,  and  when  told  that  some  men  were  hunting 
her,  offered  to  show  her  a  hiding-place  near  by.  He  conducted 
her  around  a  bend  of  the  frozen  and  snow-covered  creek  to  a 
haystack,  where  cattle  and  sheep  were  foddered;  it  was  pro- 
tected by  a  fence,  and  there  was  a  rude  shed  on  one  side.  Pull- 
ing out  some  hay,  he  exposed  a  dark  cavity  in  the  stack.  "  It's 
a  den  I  made  for  me  an'  Rove !  Once  I  had  a  notion  o'  runnin' 
away,  an'  I  was  goin'  to  live  here,  and  have  him  bring  my 
victuals.  It's  real  slick  an'  warm  in  there!"  The  cavity 
was  low,  but  she  could  not  have  entered  a  palace  with 
more  grateful  emotions.  Rover  barked  again,  and  Bim  whis- 
pered: "There's  a  man  comin'  with  a  big  hoss-whip!  Is  he  one 
of 'em?" 

It  was  the  kidnaper,  Dickson — for  kidnaper  he  was — sent 


76  NEIGHBOR  JACKWOOD 

north  in  pursuit  of  the  white  slave-girl,  by  her  owner,  Dr.  Tan- 
wood,  in  Mobile. 

Bim  climbed  the  stack,  and  threw  down  hay  as  if  for  the 
sheep,  letting  some  fall  before  the  mouth  of  the  cavity.  The 
man  approached,  demanding  of  the  boy  if  he  had  seen  "a  gal 
down  by  the  crick,"  and  threatening  him  with  his  whip  as  he 
shrewdly  evaded  the  question.  To  all  which  Charlotte  (or  Ca- 
mille,  the  real  name  of  the  fugitive)  listened  with  heart-beats  of 
fear,  which  grew  to  horror  and  agony  when  Dickson,  in  lighting 
his  pipe,  set  fire  to  the  loose  hay  at  the  mouth  of  the  "den." 
She  was  stifled  by  the  smoke,  and  it  seemed  that  the  last  strug- 
gle, the  last  mortal  throe,  had  come.  The  kidnaper  trampled 
the  burning  hay  in  the  snow,  and,  the  fire  extinguished,  hurried 
away.  Then  Bim  went  to  "tell  father,"  and  the  fugitive  was 
left  alone,  in  darkness  and  silence,  hemmed  in  by  the  low  roof 
and  prickly  walls  of  her  cell.  There  Mr.  Jackwood  came  to 
her  with  food  and  some  dry  clothing,  and  words  of  cheer  and 
comfort;  and  it  was  decided  that  the  stack  was  the  best  place  for 
her  until  the  immediate  danger  was  over. 

Returning,  dripping  wet,  to  his  kitchen,  Mr.  Jackwood  was 
astonished  to  find  a  burly,  low-browed  man  sitting  before  the 
stove.  It  was  the  kidnaper,  Dickson,  come  to  spend  the  night 
in  the  suspected  house. 

It  was  a  night  of  terrible  anxiety  to  the  farmer,  who,  as  the 
rain  increased,  pouring  in  torrents,  feared  the  valley  might  be 
flooded,  and  resolved  to  go  to  the  stack  for  Charlotte.  As  he 
was  starting  from  the  house,  he  encountered  Dickson  on  the 
stairs.  The  kidnaper  was  convinced  that  Jackwood  knew 
where  Charlotte  was,  and  he  persisted  in  accompanying  him. 
While  he  was  trying  to  bribe  the  farmer  to  give  her  up,  and 
Jackwood  was  endeavoring  to  shake  him  off,  the  freshet  came. 

The  ice-cold  water  creeping  into  her  retreat  roused  Char- 
lotte. She  stood  out  in  the  darkness  and  the  wild  storm  that 
beat  upon  her,  and  heard  a  crashing  roar,  with  reports  like 
thunder-claps,  as  though  an  earthquake  were  driving  its  plow 
with  whirlwind  and  thunder  through  the  valley.  The  creek 
was  breaking  up,  and  a  flood  was  inundating  the  meadows.  As 
it  rose  rapidly  over  her  feet,  she  managed  to  climb  the  shed, 
beneath  which  the  sheep  were  swimming  about  and  bleating 


JOHN  TOWNSEND  TROWBRIDGE  71 

piteously.  Masses  of  ice  went  drifting  by,  some  of  which  struck 
the  posts  that  supported  the  shed,  and  made  it  tremble  and 
creak  beneath  her  weight. 

Alarmed  by  the  sounds  in  the  valley,  Jackwood  rushed  out, 
the  kidnaper  keeping  by  his  side,  and  launched  his  boat,  which 
Dickson  stepped  into  before  him.  Bim  followed  with  a  lantern. 
Rowing  to  the  stack,  they  found  that  the  shed  had  disappeared. 
In  the  faint  hope  that  its  roof  had  served  as  a  raft  for  Charlotte 
the  farmer  devoted  his  attention  to  saving  his  sheep  by  means 
of  his  boat,  dexterously  contriving  to  maroon  Dickson  on  the 
stack  for  several  hours.  Reaching  firm  ground  with  his  sheep, 
Jackwood  at  once  saddled  his  horse,  and  after  some  search  he 
found  the  raft,  on  which  Charlotte  was  still  clinging,  and  bore 
her  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Rukely  and  his  wife,  whom  Charlotte 
had  first  known  as  Bertha  Wing,  and  left  her  in  their  care.  Re- 
turning, he  rescued  the  cursing  Dickson  from  the  stack,  and 
when  threatened  with  the  consequences  of  harboring  a  fugitive 
slave  the  farmer  responded :  ^'  Though  I  set  as  much  by  my  farm 
as  any  man,  I  wouldn't  mind  losin'  it  in  a  good  cause,  if  I  could 
be  o'  sarvice  to  a  feller-crittur  by  so  doin',  an'  save  'em  from 
pirates  and  man-stealers  like  you." 

The  Rukelys  had  willingly  consented  to  succor  Charlotte, 
and  to  Bertha  she  confided  her  history.  Her  father  w'^s  a 
French  merchant,  named  Delisard,  who  married  a  wealthy 
woman  in  Louisiana,  but  as  the  union  was  unhappy  a  separa- 
tion took  place,  and  he  was  about  leaving  for  France  when  he 
saw  a  beautiful  girl  of  seventeen,  the  property  of  a  bankrupt 
estate  soon  to  be  sold,  and  purchased  her.  The  girl  was  the 
daughter  of  a  white  father  and  of  a  mother  nearly  white.  She 
had  been  well  educated  and  tenderly  reared,  and  Delisard  loved 
her.  Charlotte,  or  Camille,  as  she  was  named,  was  their  only 
child,  and  it  was  Delisard's  intention  to  take  them  to  France 
when  he  had  secured  a  competence  in  New  Orleans.  One  day 
he  fell  ill  and  the  wife  from  whom  he  had  been  separated  ap- 
peared and  would  not  let  Camille  and  her  mother  see  him.  He 
died  shortly  after  that,  and  Mrs.  Delisard  kept  the  mother  as  a 
servant  and  sent  the  child  to  the  plantation  huts.  The  mother 
died  broken-hearted  and  the  child  was  sold. 

After  having  several  owners  Charlotte  at  length  became  the 


i&i^ 


72  NEIGHBOR   JACKWOOD 

property  of  Dr.  Tanwood,  of  Mobile,  and  the  attendant  of  his 
wife.  A  visitor  to  the  house,  a  Northern  man  who  called  him- 
self Roberts,  gained  her  confidence  and  promised  to  help  her  to 
escape.  On  one  occasion  he  visited  the  house  with  Hector. 
Through  the  aid  of  Roberts  she  obtained  passage  on  a  New 
York  vessel,  not  knowing  that  he  had  intended  from  the  first 
to  accompany  her.  She  soon  encountered  him  on  board,  and 
to  excuse  his  unworthy  addresses  to  her  he  charged  her  with 
ingratitude.  She  warned  him  that  she  would  die  sooner  than 
yield  to  him,  and  as  he  put  his  arms  about  her  a  knife  she  had 
placed  in  her  bosom  was  driven  sharply  into  her  flesh.  She 
subsequently  appealed  to  the  captain,  who,  on  arriving  in  New 
York,  had  her  placed  on  a  sloop  bound  for  Troy  ere  Roberts 
knew  she  had  left  the  ship.  It  was  while  attempting  to  go  on 
to  Canada  that  she  had  first  encountered  Mr.  Jackwood. 

While  Charlotte  was  at  the  Rukelys'  the  rumor  that  she  had 
been  drowned  in  the  flood  was  generally  circulated — ^news  which 
the  slave-hunters  sent  to  Mobile,  where  Hector  was  endeavoring 
to  procure  her  purchase;  and  he  thereupon  hastened  home. 
Finding  that  his  father  had  thrust  Charlotte  forth,  he  reproached 
him  bitterly,  but  was  interrupted  by  his  mother,  vv^ho  assured 
him  that  Charlotte  lived,  and  told  him  where.  Unfortunately, 
through  the  Rukelys'  housemaid,  Matilda,  and  her  suitor,  Enos 
Crumlett — leading  Qomic  characters  in  the  story — ^knowledge 
of  Charlotte's  whereabouts  had  reached  a  few  persons,  one  of 
whom  quickly  went  to  the  Rukelys.  This  was  Robert  Green- 
wich, and  Charlotte,  now  in  despair,  informed  Bertha  that  he 
and  "Mr.  Roberts''  were  the  same.  Robert  swore  that  all  he 
lived  for  was  to  make  atonement  for  the  past;  he  said  that  the 
slave-hunters  were  again  on  her  track  and  would  be  there  in  a 
few  moments,  but  that  he  had  a  swift  horse  and  would  take  her 
to  a  place  of  safety.  To  remain  there  was  fatal.  She  did  not 
yet  suspect  that  it  was  he  who,  in  rage  at  her  rejection  of  his 
suit,  had  betrayed  her  to  her  owner.  In  mingled  doubt  and 
despair  she  yielded,  and  a  few  moments  later  Dickson  and  his 
companion  arrived  and  were  furious  on  finding  that  their  prey 
had  escaped  once  more. 

Meanwhile  Robert  drove  to  a  cabin  in  the  forest — ^the  re- 
treat of  a  band  of  counterfeiters  of  whom  he  was  one — ^where 


JOHN  TOWNSEND  TROWBRIDGE  73 

they  found  the  wife  of  one  of  the  men,  Mrs.  Sperklcy,  whom 
Charlotte  had  met  on  the  Lake  Champlain  boat.  He  told  her 
that  they  would  go  on  to  Canada  the  next  day,  renewed  his 
promises  and  again  pleaded  his  love,  but  without  success.  As 
she  shrank  from  him,  Dickson's  party  surrounded  the  cabin, 
and  when  they  entered  he  rushed  to  his  sleigh  and  was  soon  out 
of  sight.  As  he  drove  furiously  on  he  encountered  a  horseman, 
who,  recognizing  him  as  they  sped  past  each  other,  turned  and 
pursued  him.  The  pursuer  grasped  Robert's  rein,  the  sleigh 
was  overturned,  the  rider  hurled  out,  and  Hector  leaped  from 
his  horse  just  as  Robert  was  struggling  to  his  feet. 

While  the  slave-hunters  were  driving  rapidly  to  the  county 
town,  the  neighborhood  was  being  aroused  to  what  was  happen- 
ing, and  Jackwood  and  others  were  on  hand  to  prevent  Char- 
lotte from  being  carried  back  to  slavery.  A  preliminary  hearing 
was  held  in  the  justice's  office  in  the  case  of  the  fugitive  slave, 
Camille,  Dickson  solemnly  swearing  that  she  was  the  property 
of  the  claimant.  Dr.  Tan  wood,  of  Mobile.  The  justice  then 
sanded  his  mandamus  and  called  for  Marshal  Dole  to  lead  her 
from  the  room.  Suddenly  someone  thrust  the  guards  aside  and 
snatched  the  girl  from  the  marshal's  arm.  "She  is  mine!"  ex- 
claimed Hector.  Dickson  called  upon  the  marshal  to  do  his 
duty.  "Amen!"  said  Hector,  and  handed  a  paper  to  Dole,  who 
delivered  it  to  the  judge,  who  glanced  at  it  and  announced: 

"  This  paper  stops  all  legal  proceedings.     The  girl  is  free." 

Dickson  rushed  to  the  desk  to  examine  the  paper,  but  was 
compelled  to  admit  that  the  signature  was  Tanwood's.  After 
treating  with  scorn  all  Hector's  attempts  to  purchase  her.  Tan- 
wood  had  at  last  been  glad  to  give  up,  for  a  small  sum,  the  girl 
supposed  to  be  drowned.  Mr.  Jackwood  assisted  Hector  to 
place  Charlotte  in  the  sleigh,  where  Bim  was  awaiting  them, 
got  in  himself  with  Hector  and  his  precious  burden,  and  she  who 
was  so  late  a  thing,  a  chattel,  a  slave,  rode  out  of  the  jubilant 
and  cheering  throng  a  soul,  a  woman,  a  wife  loving  and  beloved. 

The  county  jail  had,  however,  a  new  occupant  that  night, 
Robert  Greenwich,  who  after  his  encounter  with  Hector  fell  in 
with  the  sheriff  and  was  arrested  for  counterfeiting:  Sperkley, 
his  chief  confederate,  having  been  already  captured  in  Burling- 
ton.   While  he  sat  alone  in  his  cell  a  visitor  came  to  him:  Squire 


74  NEIGHBOR   JACKWOOD 

Greenwich,  bewildered  at  the  news  of  his  son's  arrest,  but  still 
stern  and  dictatorial.  He  was  beginning  to  take  Robert  severely 
to  task  when  the  young  man  burst  into  bitterest  reproaches,  ac- 
cusing his  father  of  tyranny  toward  him  when  a  boy  and  of  never 
having  spoken  a  loving  word  to  him.  The  old  man  urged  that 
his  pride  had  been  in  his  son;  that  he  had  looked  forward  to  see- 
ing him  an  honor  to  the  family  name,  and  had  labored  faithfully 
to  that  end.  To  this  Robert  responded  with  mingled  sneers 
and  accusations;  and  while  the  Squire  listened  broken-hearted 
he  went  rapidly  over  the  shameful  story  of  his  life,  acknowledg- 
ing himself  a  criminal,  refusing  to  admit  any  repentance,  and 
pursuing  his  father  with  curses  as  Squire  Greenwich  left  the  cell. 
"  Son  Robert,  I  shall  see  you  in  the  morning." 
"Let  me  advise  you  to  come  early,''  was  the  harsh  response; 
but  in  the  morning  the  keeper  found  the  Squire's  son  dead,  hang- 
ing from  the  lantern  chain  in  the  prison  hall. 

Hector  and  Charlotte  were  guests  of  the  Jackwoods,  for  he 
would  not  return  to  his  father's  on  account  of  the  elder  Dun- 
bury's  treatment  of  Charlotte;  but  a  message  that  his  mother 
was  near  her  end  altered  his  resolution.  The  invalid  was  being 
cared  for  by  Mrs.  Longman,  who  met  Hector  and  his  wife  at  the 
door.  The  dying  woman  assured  her  son  that  his  father  realized 
how  unjust  he  had  been  to  Hector  and  to  Charlotte.  "  He  knows 
I  have  not  long  to  stay.  ...  I  have  felt  the  love  of  his  early 
years  come  back,  and  he  has  been  strangely  softened."  Just 
then  the  sorrowing  father  entered  the  room.  With  trembling 
voice  he  said,  "Hector!"  and  as  the  son  replied,  "Father,"  their 
hands  met  in  forgiveness.  Mr.  Dunbury  then  held  out  a  hand 
to  Charlotte  with  the  words:  "My  daughter!"  She  sank  down 
at  his  feet  with  Hector  at  her  side,  as  the  father  extended  his 
quivering  palms  above  them.  "God  bless  you,  my  children!" 
and  the  dying  mother  whispered  "Peace!" 


CUD  JO'S  CAVE   (1863) 

Of  the  writing  of  this  book  the  author  gives  an  account  in  his  volume  of 
recollections,  My  Own  Story.  "The  War  of  Secession  was  a  war  of  emancipa- 
tion from  the  start.  It  could  not  be  otherwise,  whether  the  actors  engaged  in 
it  wished  it  so  or  not;  campaigns  and  acts  of  Congress,  battles  and  proclama- 
tions, victories  and  defeats,  were  not  so  much  causes  or  hindrances  as  eddies  of 
the  stream  in  whose  mighty  movements  they  were  formed  and  swept  along." 
The  author  was  eager  to  bear  his  humble  part  in  the  momentous  conflict,  and 
flung  himself  upon  the  writing  of  as  fiery  an  anti-slavery  fiction  as  he  was  capable 
of  composing.  Wishing  to  bring  into  it  some  incidents  of  guerrilla  warfare 
and  of  the  persecutions  of  Union  men  in  the  border  slave  states,  he  cast  about 
for  some  central  fact  to  give  unity  to  the  action  and  to  form  at  the  same  time  a 
picturesque  feature  of  the  narrative.  The  idea  of  a  cave  suggested  itself,  and 
he  chose  for  the  scene  a  region  where  such  things  exist.  The  story  was  frankly 
designed  to  fire  the  Northern  heart.  It  was  written  very  rapidly  in  the  summer 
and  autumn  of  1863,  and  published  in  December  of  that  year.  Traditions 
regarding  Neighbor  Jackwood  and  Cudjd's  Cave  have  grown  up  in  the  regions 
where  the  scenes  of  the  stories  are  laid.  In  Wallingford,  visitors  are  shown 
not  only  the  house  in  which  Mr.  Jackwood  lived,  but  the  spot  where  stood  the 
stack  under  which  Charlotte  was  concealed.  In  the  vicinity  of  Cumberland 
Gap  there  is  a  cave  which  guides  and  hotel  keepers  claim  as  the  original  and  only 
**  Cudjo's."  We  present  here  the  author's  own  shortened  version  of  the  story, 
which  still  retains  its  popularity. 


^N  the  small  East  Tennessee  town  of  Curryville 
Penn  Hapgood,  a  young  Quaker,  was  teacher  of 
the  village  school  in  the  early  months  of  1861. 
Disunionists  were  aiming  at  the  secession  of  the 
State  and  Unionists  were  struggling  to  prevent  it ; 
and  as  Hapgood  was  known  to  be  opposed  to 
secession  the  local  loyalists  had  offered  him  a 
commission  in  the  secret  militia,  which  he  had 
declined  on  account  of  his  Quaker  principles  of 
non-resistance. 

One  March  day  Penn  discovered  in  the  woods  a  poor  white, 
named  Dan  Pepperill,  who  had  been  flogged  and  ridden  on  a  rail 
and  then  tied  to  some  saplings.  Dan^s  particular  offense  was 
that  he  had  befriended  a  certain  negro  who  had  been  whipped 
for  being  out  at  night  without  a  pass,  as  he  explained  to  Penn 
when  the  Quaker  had  cut  his  bonds.    In  his  indignation  Penn 

75 


76  CUDJO'S  CAVE 

expressed  himself  warmly  against  a  society  which  tolerated  such 
things,  and  when  it  became  known  that  the  teacher  had  be- 
friended the  friend  of  the  blacks  the  rougher  portion  of  the  com- 
munity at  once  determined  upon  his  punishment.  A  week  later 
Penn  was  visited  by  members  of  the  so-called  Vigilance  Com- 
mittee, and  tarred  and  feathered  in  spite  of  the  efforts  of  Carl, 
a  kindly  German  lad  of  sixteen,  to  summon  assistance.  The 
assailants  forced  the  reluctant  Dan  to  aid  them  in  their  work, 
having  already  wrung  from  him  what  Penn  had  said  to  him 
in  private  about  the  slaveholders.  When  Carl  returned  with 
Farmer  Stackridge  and  several  other  Unionists,  Penn  and  his 
assailants  were  not  to  be  found.  The  house  of  his  landlady,  Mrs. 
Sprowl,  was  visited,  and  there  it  was  ascertained  that  the  school- 
master had  twice  implored  her  to  let  him  in  and  that  each  time 
she  had  barred  her  door  against  him,  having  been  counseled 
thereto  by  a  certain  bully  named  Silas  Ropes,  who  had  led  the 
band  of  ruffians^ 

In  the  village  lived  at  this  time  an  aged  blind  clergyman, 
named  Villars,  with  his  two  daughters,  Virginia,  the  younger, 
and  Salina,  the  deserted  wife  of  the  Widow  Sprowl's  scoundrel 
son  Lysander.  The  remainder  of  the  household  was  composed 
of  old  Toby,  a  free  negro,  and  Carl,  the  German  lad,  for  whom 
Penn  had  found  a  home  at  the  clergyman's  when  the  boy  was 
in  despair  of  procuring  food  and  employment.  At  this  home 
Penn  in  his  sad  plight  at  last  found  succor.  Old  Toby  and 
Stackridge  removed  the  tar,  dressed  his  wounds,  and  put  him  to 
bed.  In  order  to  avert  suspicion  it  was  decided  to  treat  any 
caller  with  customary  hospitality,  and  at  that  moment  young 
Mr.  Blythewood,  a  wealthy  neighbor,  appeared.  To  amuse 
him  Virginia  played  and  sang  songs  of  his  selection;  and  all  the 
while  Penn  was  suffering  close  at  hand;  Silas  Ropes  was  treating 
his  accomplices  in  a  barroom  not  far  off;  Stackridge  was  drilling 
Unionists  in  a  secret  cellar;  and  Salina  was  having  an  interview 
with  her  rascally  husband,  who  desired  to  get  money  from  her. 

Penn's  persecutors  did  not  intend  to  lose  sight  of  their  vic- 
tim, and  visiting  Mrs.  SprowPs  house  in  search  of  him  they  there 
encountered  her  son  Lysander,  who  informed  them  that  the 
schoolmaster  was  at  the  Villars'.  The  instigator  of  the  assault 
on  Penn  was  Blythewood,  and  when  Lysander  ascertained  this 


JOHN  TOWNSEND  TROWBRIDGE  77 

fact  from  Ropes  he  gave  Blythewood  certain  suggestions,  receiv- 
ing money  in  return,  and  in  accordance  with  their  plan  Ropes 
and  his  gang  called  on  the  clergyman  the  next  night,  accused 
him  of  harboring  an  Abolitionist,  and  announced  that  three  days 
only  would  be  given  Pcnn  Hapgood  to  leave  the  country.  One 
unwilling  member  of  the  gang  was  Dan  Pepperill,  who  managed 
to  warn  Carl  that  the  men  really  intended  to  return  for  Penn 
that  night.  The  family  were  thrown  into  consternation  by  this 
news,  which  was  increased  when  Toby  discovered  that  Penn 
had  disappeared. 

As  Dan  had  predicted,  the  men  came  back  drunk  and  blood- 
thirsty, bringing  a  rope  with  which  to  hang  Hapgood  at  the 
clergyman's  door.  Furious  at  being  thus  balked,  they  seized 
the  negro,  Toby,  whom  they  were  about  to  flog  for  concealing 
Penn,  but  jCarl  contrived  to  cut  the  negro's  bonds.  As  Toby 
fled  he  ran  against  Blythewood,  who  had  been  watching  unseen 
the  movements  of  his  paid  ruffians.  Anxious  to  preserve  his 
credit  with  the  Villars  family,  Blythewood  called  off  his  men, 
and  entering  the  house  pretended  great  indignation  at  what  had 
occurred.  Penn,  however,  had  not  been  spirited  away,  but,  as 
he  came  later  to  understand,  had  realized  the  danger  in  which 
he  was  involving  his  friends  and  had  fled  in  a  half -delirious  state, 
finding  himself  after  some  hours  of  unconsciousness  in  a  barren 
field  clad  only  in  nightdress  and  blanket.  Unconsciousness 
again  came  over  him,  and  when  he  once  more  awaked  he  was 
lying  on  a  bed  of  moss  in  a  vast  cave  lighted  by  a  blazing  fire. 
An  ugly,  deformed  negro  entered  soon,  with  an  armful  of  wood 
for  the  fire,  followed  by  a  tall,  grandly  proportioned  negro  with 
a  gun  in  hand  and  an  opossum  flung  over  his  shoulder.  The 
first  negro,  it  appeared  from  their  talk,  was  opposed  to  the  pres- 
ence of  Hapgood,  and  the  other,  addressing  him  as  Cudjo,  ex- 
plained that  it  was  by  befriending  Pepperill,  who  had  befriended 
Pete,  who  brought  meal  and  potatoes  to  the  cave,  that  the  stran- 
ger had  incurred  the  ill-will  of  Ropes  and  his  gang.  "  Dat  so, 
Pomp?"  he  said,  in  a  changed  voice.  "Den  'pears  like  dar's 
two  white  men  me  don't  wish  dead  as  dis  yer  possum!  Pep- 
perill's  one,  and  him's  tudder." 

Penn  remained  several  weeks  in  the  cave  after  his  recovery, 
and  it  was  not  long  before  Pomp  related  to  him  certain  parts  of 


78  CUDJO'S  CAVE 

his  earlier  history.  The  negro  had  been  brought  up  by  an  in- 
dulgent young  master  named  Edwin,  who  had  made  a  friend 
of  him  and  intended  to  give  him  his  freedom.  His  master's 
younger  brother  told  Edwin  on  his  deathbed  that  he  would  see 
justice  done  to  Pomp,  who  should  have  his  freedom  and  a  few 
hundred  dollars  to  begin  life  with;  but  after  Edw^in's  death  the 
brother  refused  to  keep  his  promise.  When  Pomp  was  com- 
manded to  whip  one  of  the  woman  slaves  on  the  estate  a  con- 
flict ensued  between  the  men  in  which  each  tried  to  kill  the 
other;  after  which  Pomp  took  to  the  mountains  and  made  his 
home  in  the  cave  together  with  Cudjo,  who  had  fled  from  his 
master  on  account  of  floggings  received  from  the  overseer. 

It  was  through  Cudjo  that  Pomp  had  discovered  the  cave. 
Old  Pete,  who  had  dressed  Cudjo's  wounds,  often  brought  them 
provisions  and  ammunition  for  hunting  and  disposed  of  their 
game  and  skins.  Pomp's  unworthy  master  had  been  Blythe- 
wood.  One  dark  night  the  two  negroes  visited  the  Villars  home, 
where  Penn's  clothes  were  given  to  them,  and  friendly  messages 
were  sent  by  Mr.  Villars  to  the  schoolmaster,  who  he  had  feared 
was  dead. 

As  soon  as  Penn  was  well  enough  he  was  conducted  through 
all  the  various  chambers  in  the  cave.  At  one  place,  far  from 
the  entrance,  a  portion  of  the  cave  roof,  with  its  weight  of  forest 
trees,  was  perceived  to  have  sunk  to  the  floor.  The  trees  were 
still  growing,  their  lofty  tops  barely  reaching  the  mountain-top 
above,  and  gleams  of  light  penetrated  the  cave  from  the  opening. 
A  perilous  exit  from  the  cave  could  be  made  by  clambering  up 
the  ledges  and  climbing  one  of  the  trees,  but  the  usual  passage 
was  by  a  fissure  in  the  rocks  well  hidden  by  bushes. 

At  length  Penn  determined  to  leave  his  kind  friends  in  the 
cave,  return  in  secret  to  the  village,  and  attempt,  with  the  aid 
of  Unionists  he  knew,  to  leave  Tennessee.  They  tried  in  vain 
to  dissuade  him,  but  he  persisted,  made  his  way  to  Curryville 
by  night,  and  at  once  fell  into  the  hands  of  Confederate  soldiers. 
Early  in  the  morning  he  was  subjected  to  a  drumhead  trial  and 
was  about  to  be  hanged  when  Carl  offered  to  enlist  in  the  Con- 
federate ranks  in  order  to  save  Penn's  life.  The  offer  was 
accepted  by  Penn's  captors,  and  the  schoolmaster,  hurrying 
from  the  spot,  presently  encountered  Stackridge,  who  directed 


JOHN  TOWNSEND  TROWBRIDGE  79 

him  how  to  leave  the  region  and  offered  him  a  pistol,  which  the 
Quaker  accepted,  having  been  taught  wisdom  by  the  stem  logic 
of  events. 

Seeking  shelter  at  one  time  beneath  a  bridge  he  overheard  a 
conversation  between  Sprowl  and  Blythewood,  who  were  in 
search  of  him  at  the  same  time  that  they  were  plotting  mischief 
against  the  aged  clergyman.  Feeling  that  he  could  not  quit 
Virginia  and  Mr.  Villars  in  their  peril,  he  reached  their  house 
only  to  learn  from  Virginia  that  the  soldiers  had  taken  her 
father;  but  when  she  added  that  if  Mr.  Blythewood,  who  was 
very  friendly  to  them,  had  been  in  town  the  deed  could  have 
been  prevented,  Penn  assured  her  that  the  "friendly"  Blythe- 
wood was  really  the  Villars's  worst  enemy.  In  the  hope  of 
aiding  Mr.  Villars,  Penn  set  out  again,  was  a  second  time  ar- 
rested, and  among  his  fellow  prisoners  recognized  the  clergy- 
man. Carl  was  one  of  the  guard,  and  by  skilful  strategy  on  his 
part  the  captives  managed  to  escape  and  join  Stackridge.  A 
horse  was  secured  for  Mr.  Villars  and  the  path  to  the  mountains 
was  taken,  but  Stackridge  was  soon  outgeneraled  by  the  Con- 
federates, and  schoolmaster  and  clergyman  were  once  more 
captured.  Preparations  were  made  for  hanging  Mr.  Villars 
when  Penn  implored  their  captors  to  spare  him.  This  the 
soldiers  were  willing  to  do,  but  Penn  was  bound  to  a  tree  and 
the  order  given  to  "  charge  bayonets."  In  an  instant  the  murder 
would  have  been  done.  But  when  within  two  paces  of  his 
victim,  the  steel  almost  touching  his  breast.  Griffin  uttered  a  yell, 
dropped  his  gun,  and  fell  dead  at  Penn's  feet.  The  assassins 
were  terror-struck.  Not  a  human  being  was  in  sight.  They 
waited  but  a  moment,  then  fled,  leaving  Penn  still  bound  but 
uninjured.  Two  figures  came  swiftly  over  the  rocks.  They 
were  Pomp  and  Cudjo. 

Mr.  Villars  was  conducted  to  the  cave  by  Cudjo,  while  Pomp 
and  Penn  watched  from  the  cliffside  the  movements  below  of 
Stackridge's  band  on  one  side  of  a  bushy  ridge,  and  of  the  Con- 
federates on  the  other.  At  the  right  moment  both  fired  at  the 
Confederates,  who  at  once  fled  panic-stricken,  pursued  a  short 
distance  by  the  Unionists,  who  had  not  before  suspected  that 
their  foes  were  so  near.  Penn  now  stood  out  on  the  ledge  waving 
a  handkerchief  from  his  rifle,  and  was  soon  joined  by  the  whole 


8o  CUDJO'S  CAVE 

party,  to  whom  he  explained  that  the  credit  of  the  maneuver 
belonged  to  Pomp.  A  few  of  the  Unionists,  led  by  Deslow,  a 
bigoted  slave-owner,  looked  grave  at  being  thus  brought  into 
such  relations  with  a  fugitive  slave;  but  Stackridge  and  the 
others  insisted  that  they  must  give  up  some  of  their  prejudices 
for  the  sake  of  the  Union  they  were  now  fighting  for.  The 
band  then  had  an  interview  with  Pomp,  assured  him  that  he 
was  safe  from  danger  as  regarded  them,  and  he  promised  to 
supply  them  with  provisions.  On  the  succeeding  night  Carl 
appeared  at  the  Villars'  house  in  order  to  conduct  Virginia  to 
the  cave;  but  he  missed  his  way,  and  leaving  his  companion  for 
a  moment  in  order  to  find  it  fell  into  the  hands  of  some  Con- 
federates who  were  just  then  setting  fire  to  the  woods  to  cut  off 
the  approach  of  their  opponents. 

Virginia,  after  waiting  Cud  jo's  return  in  vain,  went  on  by 
herself,  her  way  being  soon  lighted  up  by  the  glare  of  the  burn- 
ing forest.  For  safety  she  entered  a  gorge  in  the  cliff  side,  the 
flames  now  approaching  her  from  every  direction,  and  at  last 
as  she  clung  to  a  perilous  ledge  her  progress  was  stayed  by  a 
bear  seeking  refuge  like  herself. 

Virginia's  earlier  peril  had  been  observed  from  a  distance  by 
Pepperill  and  the  knowledge  conveyed  to  Penn,  who  at  length 
was  able  to  rescue  her  with  the  aid  of  Dan  and  Cudjo,  though 
with  the  greatest  difficulty.  Virginia  and  Penn  had  from  the 
first  been  attracted  to  each  other,  and  the  dangers  they  shared 
inspired  a  tenderer  attachment.  The  party  reached  the  cave  in 
safety  and  soon  after  were  joined  by  Stackridge's  band,  piloted 
by  Pomp,  these  having  gained  the  cave  by  the  dangerous  sink- 
hole caused  by  the  fall  of  a  part  of  the  cave  roof.  Deslow  had 
been  unwilling  at  first  to  owe  his  life  to  a  fugitive  slave,  but 
finally  consented  to  follow  the  others.  It  was  now  morning. 
The  fires  were  nearly  extinguished  and  it  was  raining.  Penn, 
near  the  entrance  of  the  cave,  could  hear  someone  climbing  up 
the  hillside,  and  peering  over  saw  old  Toby,  whose  first  question 
was:  "  Miss  Jinny — ye  seen  Miss  Jinny?"  He  was  assured  that 
she  was  safe  and  was  then  admitted  to  the  cave.  In  the  after- 
noon he  was  sent  back  to  Curryville  with  a  note  informing  Salina 
that  her  father  and  sister  were  safe.  To  deceive  Lysander 
Sprowl,  who  now  bore  the  rank  of  captain,  Toby  announced 


JOHN  TOWNSEND  TROWBRIDGE  8i 

that  "oP  massa  and  young  miss"  were  nowhere  on  the  face  of 
the  earth,  which  was  in  a  measure  true  since  they  were  inside 
the  earth.  Sprowl  hoped  they  had  perished,  for  if  so  he,  as 
Salina's  husband,  might  possess  the  Villars  property. 

Worthless  as  Lysander  was,  Salina  loved  him,  and  as  he  now 
showed  her  some  little  kindness  she  confessed  that  Toby  had 
fooled  him  and  showed  him  Virginia's  note.  Thereupon  he  or- 
dered two  stout  and  stupid  German  soldiers  to  flog  Toby  till 
he  confessed  where  the  escaped  prisoners  were  hidden.  Salina 
was  furious,  though  to  no  purpose;  but  after  twenty  lashes  had 
been  applied  to  the  unfortunate  Toby,  she  set  the  house  on  fire, 
and  while  the  others  were  putting  out  the  flames  she  cut  Toby's 
bonds  and  aided  his  escape.  If  Lysander  was  reckless  she  had 
been  more  so,  and  he  was  afraid  of  her  in  her  present  mood. 

Salina  persuaded  Toby  to  pilot  her  to  the  cave  that  she  might 
be  with  her  relatives;  on  the  way  they  encountered  Carl,  who 
had  outwitted  Sprowl  when  the  other  had  commanded  him  to 
conduct  him  and  his  followers  to  the  cave,  and  by  means  of  a 
blow  on  the  head  had  temporarily  rendered  him  insensible. 
Toby  and  Carl  then  bore  the  unconscious  Sprowl  into  the  cave, 
where  on  his  recovering  he  was  quickly  handcuffed,  Carl  guard- 
ing him  with  a  pistol.     His  sword  was  given  to  Cudjo. 

A  council  of  war  was  presently  held  in  the  cave,  at  which 
Stackridge  announced  that  Deslow  had  deserted.  It  became 
evident  that  their  retreat  could  not  remain  secret  much  longer 
and  that  preparations  for  dispersal  at  any  moment  should  be 
made.     But  dispersal  came  about  sooner  than  was  looked  for. 

As  a  diversion  for  the  time,  Penn,  with  Virginia,  Carl,  and 
Cudjo,  set  about  visiting  some  of  the  wonders  of  the  cave,  Carl 
first  tying  Captain  Sprowl  more  securely  than  ever  and  setting 
Toby  to  watch  him,  pistol  in  hand.  As  they  reached  the  fallen 
portion  of  the  cave  roof  they  saw  far  above  them,  through  the 
leafage  on  the  brink  of  the  chasm,  their  enemy  Silas  Ropes,  who 
recognized  them;  he  waved  his  hand,  and  a  squad  of  soldiers 
came  in  view,  pointed  their  rifles  downward,  and  fired.  No  one 
was  injured,  and  before  the  soldiers  could  reload  the  four  were 
out  of  danger.  Cudjo  now  gave  the  alarm  to  Stackridge  and  his 
men,  who  hastened  after  him  to  the  chasm. 

As  they  disappeared  Lysander  persuaded  Toby  to  ask  Salina 
A.D.,  VOL.  xvn. — 6 


82  CUDJO'S  CAVE 

to  come  to  him  that  he  might  ask  her  forgiveness  before  he  died. 
Hating  or  loving  him,  she  could  not  bear  to  see  him  degraded, 
and  so  had  shut  herself  away  from  him,  but  now  came  at  his  re- 
quest. With  mingled  entreaties  and  cajolery  he  at  length  pre- 
vailed upon  her  to  aid  him  after  promising  that  he  would  not 
take  advantage  of  his  freedom  to  injure  those  in  the  cave.  Ex- 
claiming that  he  should  keep  his  oath  or  one  of  them  should  die 
for  it,  she  dropped  a  knife  by  his  side  unseen  by  Toby.  At  the 
first  chance  the  Captain  sprang  up  and  dashed  out  of  the  cave, 
rudely  flinging  his  wife  against  a  ledge  as  he  rushed  past  her. 
His  ingratitude  showed  her  her  fatal  mistake,  and  when  the 
escape  was  discovered  she  denounced  herself  and  declared  that 
she  would  defend  the  cave  entrance  and  that  no  man  should 
enter  till  she  were  dead. 

Still  handcuffed,  Lysander  made  his  way  to  Blythewood's 
forces  and  proposed  to  lead  a  squad  of  men  to  surprise  the  cave, 
the  treachery  of  Deslow  having  made  its  locality  familiar  to  the 
Confederates.  With  Lysander  at  their  head  the  assailants 
reached  the  entrance,  where  Salina  met  them  with  a  pistol  and 
Virginia  with  an  ax.  When  no  attention  was  paid  to  Lysander's 
questions  and  entreaties  to  stand  aside  the  Captain  ordered  his 
men  forward.  Salina  fired  her  pistol  at  her  husband,  mortally 
wounding  him,  and  was  immediately  bayoneted  by  one  of  the 
soldiers.  Taking  Virginia  and  Mr.  Villars  prisoners,  the  men 
retired,  carrying  their  captives  to  Blythewood's  headquarters. 

The  Colonel  ordered  that  every  attention  should  be  paid  to 
the  old  man,  and  then  attempted  to  plead  his  cause  with  Vir- 
ginia, who  repulsed  him  with  scorn.  He  had  only  a  sergeant 
and  two  men  now  with  him,  the  others  having  been  sent  to  re- 
enforce  Ropes,  and  the  two  were,  as  he  thought,  quite  alone. 
When  he  repeated  that  Virginia  could  save  her  father  and  her 
friends  if  she  chose,  she  told  him  how  all  his  schemes  were 
known  to  her;  and  just  then  was  seen  through  the  bushes  close 
at  hand  the  face  of  Pomp.  In  a  fierce  whisper  the  negro  assured 
Blythewood  that  a  single  move  would  be  his  death.  He  then 
ordered  him  to  give  his  pistol  to  Virginia,  and  to  send  away  his 
men,  who,  though  near,  were  out  of  sight,  or  they  would  be  shot 
from  the  heights  where  even  now  the  gleam  of  steel  was  visible. 

Blythewood  sullenly  obeyed,  and  was  then  made  to  proceed 


JOHN  TOWNSEND  TROWBRIDGE  83 

toward  the  cave  in  front  of  Virginia,  who  was  to  shoot  him  if  he 
turned  his  head.  On  the  way  Carl  and  Penn  came  into  view, 
both  armed,  and  Pomp  covered  the  retreat.  In  the  cave  they 
found  Toby  waiHng  over  the  dead  Sahna.  A  helpless  prisoner, 
Blythewood  was  forced  to  accede  to  every  demand  of  Pomp's. 
At  the  negro's  instance  he  wrote  and  signed  an  order  to  have  the 
fighting  on  his  side  discontinued  and  his  forces  withdrawn,  with 
a  safe-conduct  for  Mr.  Villars,  his  daughter,  and  servants  be- 
yond the  Confederate  lines,  and  an  order  for  Deslow  to  be  sent 
to  the  cave. 

While  Salina  and  Virginia  were  attempting  to  defend  the 
cave  entrance  the  skirmish  at  the  chasm  was  at  its  height.  The 
attacking  party  descending  into  the  cavern  had  been  met  by 
volleys  from  the  defenders,  and  the  fifteen  who  reached  the  bot- 
tom were  either  killed  or  captured.  Another  volley  diminished 
the  number  of  assailants  on  the  cliff  above.  Poor  Cudjo  was 
killed  by  a  shot  from  one  of  the  soldiers  above,  but  even  in  his 
death  was  able  to  compass  the  death  of  Silas  Ropes,  the  two 
falling  into  the  dark  river  that  swept  through  the  cave,  to  be 
borne  away  on  its  mysterious  current. 

Danger  from  this  quarter  was  now  practically  over,  and 
following  this  event  Pomp  came  upon  Blythewood.  The  letter 
written  by  Blythewood  at  Pomp's  stern  instigation  reached 
Colonel  Derring,  the  chief  officer  in  that  region,  shortly  after 
news  of  the  disaster  at  the  sink-hole  and  the  loss  of  prisoners; 
and  that  officer  presently  sent  for  Deslow,  as  he  recognized  that 
no  other  course  was  possible  than  to  deliver  up  the  renegade. 
It  was  represented  to  Deslow  that  the  Unionists  were  coming  to 
terms  and  were  desirous  of  following  his  example,  and  that  he 
could  help  along  the  cause  by  representing  to  them  the  folly  of 
continued  holding  out. 

With  some  misgivings  Deslow  agreed  to  visit  the  cave,  but  on 
reaching  it  he  saw  Blythewood  bound,  and  stern  looks  in  the 
faces  of  his  former  friends.  No  explanations  were  needed.  He 
knew  he  was  there  to  die.  Terror-stricken,  he  appealed  to  the 
Unionists  to  save  him,  and  was  sternly  answered:  "This  is 
Pomp's  business.  Deal  with  him."  Penn  then  entreated  for 
him,  but  in  vain.  Pomp  now  lighted  a  lantern  and  led  Deslow 
to  the  farthest  recesses  of  the  cave,  where  falling  waters  plunged 


84  CUDJO'S  CAVE 

into  unknown  depths.  It  was  Pomp's  purpose  to  shoot  the 
renegade  and  then  cast  him  into  the  chasm,  but  Virginia,  who 
had  followed  them  unseen,  now  pleaded  with  him  for  Deslow's 
life.  Long  she  entreated,  and  at  last  the  negro  yielded  to  her 
prayers.  Those  who  had  been  left  behind  heard  presently  the 
crack  of  a  rifle,  and  after  a  time  Pomp  and  Virginia  returned, 
but  Deslow  was  not  with  them.  The  trembling  Augustus  sup- 
posed that  Deslow  had  been  shot  and  feared  a  similar  fate. 

A  week  later  Pepperill  brought  news  to  Pomp  that  the  Villars 
family  had  safely  reached  Kentucky  on  their  northward  jour- 
ney, and  was  urged  by  the  other  to  push  on  to  the  free  states. 
With  little  sympathy  for  the  Southern  cause,  poor  Dan  was  too 
weak  to  resist  his  destiny,  and  he  elected  to  remain  in  the  Con- 
federate service.  Pomp  then  told  him  he  should  have  company, 
and  from  some  recess  in  the  cave  brought  forth  the  wretched 
Deslow.  He  next  cut  Blythewood's  bonds,  and  bidding  them 
go  in  peace  disappeared  in  the  cave  while  his  late  prisoners  went 
slowly  down  the  mountainside  with  Pepperill.  Blythewood's 
reappearance  was  a  signal  for  sending  two  full  companies  to 
capture  the  cave,  but  they  captured  nothing  else.  Pomp  was 
already  miles  away  on  the  trail  of  the  refugees. 

The  Villars  family  found  a  new  home  in  Ohio,  where  they 
were  visited  by  Penn  and  Carl  on  their  way  to  Pennsylvania. 
Pomp  was  subsequently  famous  as  a  negro  scout,  and  poor  Dan 
Pepperill  fell  in  the  battle  of  Stone  River,  fighting  in  a  cause  he 
never  loved.  To  Virginia  Penn  said:  ^'Our  country  first!" 
She  bravely  bade  him  go,  and  he  and  Carl  served  in  the  same 
Pennsylvania  regiment.  There  the  story  leaves  them,  the  union 
of  the  lovers  being  postponed  until  the  restoration  of  the  Union 
for  which  the  Quaker-soldier  fought. 


IVAN   TURGENIEV 

(Russia,  1818-1883) 
FATHERS  AND  SONS   (1862) 

Turg^niev  was  in  the  front  rank  of  Russian  authors  when  Fathers  and  Sons 
appeared.  He  stood  for  Liberalism,  and  the  younger,  more  aggressive  Russians 
hailed  him  as  a  champion  and  prophet,  thinking  the  better  of  him  because  he  had 
suffered  at  the  hands  of  the  Czar's  government.  It  is  known  now  that  he  had 
no  political  purpose  in  view  in  writing  this  novel,  but  its  immediate  effect  on  the 
politics  of  his  country  was  tremendous.  It  is  difficult  for  Americans  to  under- 
stand this,  because  not  only  do  our  institutions  fail  to  suggest  a  parallel  to  the 
conditions  under  which  Turgeniev's  personages  move,  but  the  period  (about 
i860)  is  comparatively  remote.  Much  has  changed,  even  in  Russia,  since  then. 
What  Turgeniev  undertook  was  a  delineation  of  certain  types  which  his  clear 
vision  saw  as  forces,  acting  in  one  direction  or  another,  in  his  country  at  the 
time.  Denial  of  authority  was  but  then  coming  into  fashion  among  the  younger 
thinkers,  and  Turgeniev  was  a  prophet  in  that  he  perceived  the  strength  and 
weakness  of  the  new  thought,  as  well  as  its  epoch-making  spread  over  the  land. 
He  gave  the  doctrine  a  name.  Nihilism,  its  advocates  were  Nihilists;  and  these 
terms,  looked  upon  as  terms  of  reproach  by  the  upholders  of  authority,  were 
speedily  adopted  by  the  new  party  with  a  sort  of  pride.  But  the  Nihilists  felt, 
nevertheless,  that  Turgeniev  had  caricatured  them  in  Bazarov,  the  leading  figure 
in  the  story,  and  the  author,  therefore,  suddenly  found  himself  hated  by  those 
whose  cause  he  had  espoused.  He  was  involved  in  much  controversy  with  his 
critics,  and  stubbornly  contended  that  he  had  meant  no  caricature,  but  had 
drawn  a  type  as  he  saw  it,  and  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  write  otherwise. 


[HEN  Arkady  came  home  from  the  university  he 
brought  with  him  his  new  friend,  Bazarov,  whom 
he  idoHzed  with  that  enthusiasm  which  can  be  felt 
only  by  generous  young  fellows  of  twenty-three 
years,  or  less.  Bazarov  was  some  years  the  elder, 
a  student  of  physical  science,  especially  of  medi- 
cine. Whenever  he  was  asked  about  his  future 
he  answered  that  he  was  going  to  be  a  country 
doctor.  Few  who  talked  with  him  believed  that 
he  could  be  so  circumscribed;  it  is  doubtful  whether  Bazarov 
himself,  with  all  his  rigid  regard  for  truth  and  his  blunt,  tactless, 
often  offensive  expression  of  what  he  thought  to  be  the  truth, 
believed  it.     Just  what  his  private  dreams  were,  whether  for 

85 


86  FATHERS  AND  SONS 

that  leadership  in  a  great  movement  that  worshiping  friends 
like  Arkady  foresaw  for  him,  it  is  impossible  to  say ;  but  once  he 
made  a  very  suggestive  remark.  Arkady  asked  him,  "Do  you 
expect  much  of  yourself  ?  Have  you  a  high  opinion  of  yourself  ?  " 
This  question  was  pertinent  to  Bazarov's  open  contempt  for  ev- 
erybody else.  He  paused  before  replying,  and  then  answered, 
dwelling  on  every  syllable,  "  When  I  meet  a  man  who  can  hold 
his  own  beside  me  then  I'll  change  my  opinion  of  myself." 

Bazarov  was  welcomed  with  effusive  cordiality  by  Arkady's 
father,  Nikolai  Kirsanov,  and  with  no  effusiveness  but  still  with 
cordiality  by  Pavel  Kirsanov,  Nikolai's  elder  brother.  These 
two  gentlemen,  with  the  servants,  constituted  the  household,  so 
far  as  Arkady  himself  was  aware,  but  there  were  two  others,  as 
he  had  yet  to  learn.  The  Kirsanov  estate  was  not  in  a  prosper- 
ous condition.  The  serfs  had  but  recently  been  freed,  and  Nik- 
olai, who  managed  the  property,  had  tried  to  be  progressive  and 
to  adapt  himself  to  the  new  order.  He  instituted  the  rental 
system,  but  having  little  talent  for  business  he  was  imposed  on 
by  his  factors,  by  tradesmen,  and  by  the  peasants  themselves, 
so  that  his  resources  steadily  dwindled. 

Pavel,  the  elder  brother,  who  loved  him  dearly,  could  do 
nothing  to  help  except  in  furnishing  money  for  one  emergency 
and  another,  which  he  did  until  the  end  of  his  reserve  seemed  to 
be  in  sight.  Pavel's  life  had  been  wrecked  by  an  unfortunate 
love  affair.  He  was  a  singularly  handsome  man  and  regarded 
as  exceptionally  brilliant.  At  twenty-eight  he  was  a  captain, 
and  a  great  career  was  apparently  before  him.     Then  he  met 

the  Princess  R .     Pavel  made  his  customary  conquest,  but 

on  this  occasion  the  lady  also  made  a  conquest,  and  it  was  per- 
manent. When  she  tired  of  him,  as  she  soon  did,  and  he  was 
convinced  that  there  was  no  reawakening  her  passion,  he  tried 
in  vain  to  get  into  the  grooves  of  his  former  life.  A  dozen  years 
passed  in  desultory  wandering;  then  he  retired  to  his  brother's 
estate  where  he  read  some  foreign  publications,  and  dressed 
exquisitely,  as  if  he  were  still  in  the  capital,  dined  well,  held  aloof 
from  his  neighbors,  and  shaped  his  conduct  with  the  most  fas- 
tidious regard  for  the  conventions. 

Pavel  Kirsanov  and  Bazarov  were  naturally,  helplessly  anti- 
pathetic.    The  visitor  had  not  been  in  the  house  a  day  before 


IVAN  TURGfiNIEV  87 

Pavel  heartily  disliked  him.  Bazarov's  dislike  began  at  sight. 
To  him  Pavel  was  the  most  detestable  type  of  aristocrat,  one 
who  sat  through  life  with  folded  hands,  doing  nothing.  Pavel's 
good  breeding  led  him  at  first  to  avoid  discussions  with  the  young 
men,  for  what  began  as  a  frank  exchange  of  views  speedily  de- 
veloped into  bitter  controversy;  but  Bazarov  never  minced  terms, 
or  disguised  the  hearty  contempt  he  felt  not  only  for  PavePs 
ideas,  but  for  the  man.  At  length,  however,  Pavel  was  so  dis- 
turbed, partly  because  he  feared  the  influence  of  the  new  ideas 
on  Arkady,  that  he  undertook  deliberately  an  exhaustive  argu- 
ment with  the  visitor.  It  was  acrimonious  almost  from  the 
start,  and  Nikolai,  whose  nature  was  tolerant,  tried  to  change 
the  subject,  but  vainly.  Toward  the  end  of  the  conversation 
Pavel  exclaimed :  "  Nihilism,  then,  confines  itself  to  abuse." 

"Nihilism,"  Bazarov  echoed  contemptuously,  "confines  it- 
self to  abuse." 

It  was  as  much  as  to  say,  "  You  are  not  intellectually  capable 
of  comprehending  truth  or  conducting  an  argument." 

Pavel  puckered  up  his  face  a  little.  "  So,  that  is  it,"  he  said, 
in  a  strangely  composed  voice.  "  Nihilism  is  to  cure  all  our  woes, 
and  you — ^you  are  our  heroes  and  saviors.  But  why  do  you 
abuse  others,  even  the  reformers?  Don't  you  do  as  much  talk- 
ing as  everyone  else  ?  " 

"Whatever  faults  we  have  we  do  not  err  in  that  way,"  Ba- 
zarov muttered  between  his  teeth. 

"  What  then  ?     Do  you  act  ?    Are  you  preparing  for  action  ?  " 

Bazarov  made  no  answer.  Something  like  a  tremor  passed 
over  Pavel,  but  he  at  once  regained  control  of  himself. 

"Action,  destruction,"  he  mused.  "How  destroy  without 
even  knowing  why?" 

"We  shall  destroy  because  we  are  a  force,"  observed  Arkady, 
"  and  a  force  is  not  to  be  called  to  account." 

Pavel  could  not  maintain  his  composure  any  longer.  He 
spoke  hotly  of  the  stupidity  and  danger  of  this  doctrine,  and 
Bazarov  condescended  to  return  to  the  argument  long  enough  to 
defy  his  adversary  to  mention  one  human  institution  that  would 
not  better  be  destroyed.  "Allow  yourself  two  days  to  think  it 
over,"  he  said  insolently.  "I  am  going  to  dissect  some  frogs  I 
caught  this  morning." 


88  FATHERS  AND   SONS 

Bazarov  then  withdrew,  and  Arkady  went  with  him.  Now 
and  again  Arkady  pleaded  privately  with  his  friend  for  a  little 
personal  consideration  for  the  elder  men.  ''They  are  good- 
hearted,"  he  would  say,  and  offer  excuses  for  their  unreadiness 
to  accept  the  new  ideas.  Bazarov  replied  to  pleas  of  this  kind 
that  he  liked  Arkady's  father;  he  was  a  "good  fellow";  but  as 
for  Pavel,  he  was  a  snobbish  aristocrat  and  deserved  no  con- 
sideration; pleas  in  his  behalf  made  Arkady  himself  a  sentimen- 
tal milksop,  ay,  a  fool.  The  latter  term  was  often  applied  to 
Arkady  by  Bazarov,  to  his  face,  of  course,  and  the  younger  man 
endured  it  without  protest,  for  so  deep  was  his  idolatry  of  the 
stronger  character  that  he  belittled  himself  almost  to  the  degree 
of  cherishing  the  harshness  with  which  he  was  treated. 

On  the  day  of  Arkady's  return  home,  his  father,  with  much 
hesitation  and  embarrassment,  made  known  to  him  that  there 
was  an  inmate  of  the  house  who  had  not  been  there  when  he 
went  away  to  the  university,  who  was — it  is  so  difficult  to  speak 
of  these  matters! — in  short,  a  girl;  if  Arkady  objected,  she  could 
be  removed  to  the  lodge.  But  Arkady  had  no  shadow  of  ob- 
jection. The  son  was  a  man  of  the  world.  He  knew.  The 
only  difficulty  lay  in  not  condescending  to  his  father.  It  was 
mildly  amusing,  and  mildly  sad,  that  he,  a  loving  and  respectful 
son,  should  be  put  in  the  position  of  judge  to  his  father's  conduct. 
His  expressions  of  assent,  however,  were  wholly  satisfactory  to 
Nikolai,  and  yet  not  so  much  of  a  relief  as  to  enable  him  to  tell 
the  entire  truth.  It  remained  for  Arkady  to  discover  that  there 
was  also  a  six-months' -old  boy  in  the  two  rooms  set  apart  for 
the  "girl."  When  he  discovered  this  Arkady  ran  to  his  father, 
crying  joyfully:  "You  did  not  tell  me  I  had  a  brother!"  And 
in  this  fact,  and  Arkady's  manner  of  taking  it,  father  and  son 
found  occasion  for  such  embraces  as  had  signalized  their  meet- 
ing after  years  of  separation. 

The  young  woman  was  called  familiarly  Fenitchka,  and  the 
baby  was  Mitya.  Bazarov  discovered  them  in  a  day  or  two, 
and  of  course  asked  who  they  were.  Arkady  explained.  "  They 
ought  to  be  married,"  the  son  said  quite  simply,  whereupon 
Bazarov  calmly  sneered.  Marriage  was  utterly  unnecessary  in 
his  philosophy.  That  was  to  be  expected  of  a  Nihilist  of  those 
days,  but  Bazarov  went  further.    He  denied  the  existence  of 


IVAN  TURGfiNIEV  89 

love,  so  called.  It  was  an  unreality.  The  man  who  yielded  to 
passion  was  contemptible.  In  his  enthusiasm  for  his  brilliant 
friend,  Arkady  believed  this,  too,  or  thought  he  did.  Bazarov 
was  not  always  gruff,  insolent,  discourteous.  These  harsh,  dis- 
cordant mannerisms  were  brought  into  evidence  when  his  con- 
victions were  crossed,  as  they  might  be  without  a  spoken  word; 
witness  his  dislike  of  Pavel  at  sight.  With  Fenitchka  and  the 
baby  he  was  almost  a  different  man.  The  baby  "took  to  him" 
instantly,  much  to  the  mother's  astonishment  and  delight;  and 
Fenitchka  herself,  after  her  first  embarrassment,  liked  the 
visitor,  was  easy  in  his  presence,  and  consulted  him  eagerly 
whenever  the  baby  sneezed,  or  manifested  any  other  alarming 
symptom.  Most  of  the  servants,  too,  liked  Bazarov.  Fenitchka's 
little  maid  became  sorrowful  with  her  secret  love  for  him. 

Although  Bazarov  spent  almost  all  his  time  at  his  chosen 
pursuit,  gathering  botanical  specimens,  dissecting  animals,  and 
studying  in  other  ways,  he  soon  became  restless,  and  it  was  at 
his  suggestion  that  he  and  Arkady  traveled  to  a  distant  town 
for  the  vague  purpose  of  seeing  the  high  officials  there.  Once 
in  the  town,  the  Nihilist's  contempt  for  people  in  high  places 
developed  such  strength  that  he  could  hardly  be  prevailed  upon 
to  go  anywhere  if  there  were  a  chance  that  officialdom  would  be 
represented;  but  Arkady  induced  him  to  go  to  the  Governor's 
ball,  and  there  they  met  Madame  Anna  Odintsov,  a  widow 
of  considerable  wealth.  She  was  twenty-nine  years  old.  Her 
estate  lay  about  thirty  miles  from  the  town,  and  she  seldom  left 
it.  The  young  men  called  upon  her  at  her  hotel,  Arkady  already 
in  a  condition  of  complete  subjection  to  her  charms.  Bazarov, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  found  himself  embarrassed  in  the 
presence  of  a  human  being.  She  invited  the  young  men  to 
pay  her  a  visit,  which  they  promised  to  do,  and  they  arrived  at 
her  house  a  few  days  after  their  first  meeting  in  the  town. 

Madame  Odintsov's  duenna  was  an  elderly  princess  who 
was  too  ill-natured  to  be  in  anybody's  way,  and  another  member 
of  the  household  was  Anna's  sister,  Katya,  a  shy,  reserved  girl  of 
eighteen,  who  was  even  more  under  the  dominance  of  her  sister 
than  Arkady  was  under  that  of  Bazarov.  Katya  was  as  beauti- 
ful as  Anna,  and  she  was  highly  accomplished,  but  in  Anna's 
presence  she  was  submissive,  like  a  well-trained  child,  never 


90  FATHERS  AND   SONS 

asserting  so  much  as  her  presence;  and  when  Anna  was  absent 
she  was  almost  equally  silent,  as  if  it  were  impossible  to  shake 
off  the  habit.  Arkady  was  thrown  necessarily  very  much  with 
Katya,  for  Madame  Odintsov  was  plainly  attracted  by  his 
stronger  companion.  When  they  went  for  walks  she  took 
Bazarov^s  arm,  and  Katya  fell  to  Arkady,  who  did  his  polite 
best  to  interest  her,  to  discover  what  was  of  interest  to  her,  and 
to  interest  himself  in  it.  He  was  as  certain  that  Bazarov  had 
been  fascinated  with  Madame  Odintsov,  and,  without  conscious 
self-abnegation,  he  effaced  himself.  It  was  his  sorrowful 
recognition  of  the  fact  that  such  a  thing  as  rivalry  could  not 
exist  between  himself  and  Bazarov.  As  well  expect  a  candle  to 
rival  the  sun! 

There  was  from  the  beginning  a  struggle  in  Bazarov's  secret 
thoughts.  He  was  no  fool  to  tell  himself  that  he  was  not  fas- 
cinated, but  he  fought  against  the  charm  of  the  woman's  per- 
sonality, and  despised  himself  that  she  did  charm  him.  Always 
what  people  call  a  "singular"  man,  this  circumstance  aggra- 
vated his  singularity.  It  manifested  itself  in  surly  treatment  of 
Arkady,  whose  passion  for  Madame  Odintsov  was  as  plain  to 
him  as  noonday,  and  in  such  pronounced  eccentricity  of  speech 
and  demeanor  when  he  was  with  her  that  her  curiosity  was 
highly  piqued.  This  is  not  to  deny  that  she  had  a  deeper 
interest  than  curiosity  in  her  unusual  guest ;  it  is  not  to  say  that 
she  deliberately  played  upon  his  feelings  after  the  manner  of  a 
conscious  flirt;  but,  in  any  event,  it  was  her  insistent  questioning 
of  Bazarov  about  himself  that  brought  the  situation  to  a  crisis. 

As  Bazarov  said  at  a  later  time,  it  had  to  be.  He  stood,  look- 
ing out  of  a  window,  his  back  to  her,  while  she  plied  him  with 
demands  for  an  explanation  of  his  reticence. 

"You  will  not  be  angry?"  he  asked. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  with  a  sudden  dread. 

Then,  without  turning,  "I  love  you  like  a  madman,"  he 
said.     "  You  have  forced  it  from  me." 

He  faced  her,  and  she  was  terrified  at  the  brute  force  of  the 
passion  that  shone  in  his  eyes.  She  retreated.  He  caught  her 
in  his  arms  and  held  her  for  one  instant.  Then,  he  knew  not 
how,  she  was  in  a  far  corner,  and  he  stood  alone. 

"You  have  misunderstood  me,"  she  whispered,  and  he  left 


IVAN  TURGfiNIEV  91 

the  room.  Within  half  an  hour  a  servant  brought  her  a  note 
from  him.  He  asked  whether  he  should  go  at  once  or  wait  till 
the  morrow. 

Madame  Odintsov  would  have  had  him  stay  indefinitely. 
She  told  him  to  wait  until  the  next  day,  and  meantime  blamed 
herself  heartily  for  what  had  happened.  "He  is  not  a  man  to 
be  played  with,"  she  said  to  herself,  and  was  much  shaken. 
Bazarov  apologized  when  he  met  her,  and  when  she  assured 
him  that  she  was  not  angry  he  insisted  that  he  should  go  away. 
To  her  "Why?"  he  said:  "You  do  not  love  me,  and  you  never 
could  love  me,  I  suppose?" 

She  did  not  answer  him.  "I  am  afraid  of  this  man!" 
flashed  through  her  brain.  He  seemed  to  understand,  for  he 
bade  her  an  abrupt  good-by. 

Arkady  vfSiS  amazed,  and  at  first  pleased,  when  he  knew  that 
Bazarov  was  to  go,  but  a  few  minutes'  reflection  convinced  him 
that  he  would  better  go  too.  Madame  Odintsov  would  surely 
pay  him  no  more  attention  merely  for  the  fact  that  the  stronger 
personality  was  absent.  So  Arkady  decided  to  go,  and  he  was 
conscious  of  regret  at  parting  from  Katya  as  well  as  from  Ma- 
dame Odintsov,  for  forced  companionship  with  Katya  had  made 
him  feel  at  last  acquainted  with  her. 

The  young  men  went  to  Bazarov's  home,  a  poor  little  house 
in  a  mean  little  village.  Bazarov's  parents  were  frantic  with 
delight  at  seeing  him  again.  They  overwhelmed  him  with  af- 
fectionate attentions,  all  of  which  annoyed  him  to  the  degree  of 
exasperation.  He  felt  and  expressed  a  contemptuous  pity  for 
the  old  people.  Their  thought,  their  life,  was  as  impossible  for 
him  as  his  for  them.  Their  sympathies  were  foreign  to  his. 
He  was  terribly,  tragically  out  of  place  in  his  own  home.  Three 
days  he  endured  it,  and  then,  leaving  father  and  mother  heart- 
broken, abruptly  departed. 

For  weeks  the  relations  between  Arkady  and  Bazarov  had 
been  strained.  Arkady  felt  sympathy  for  his  friend's  parents, 
for  which  Bazarov  called  him  a  sentimentalist.  Arkady  found 
much  to  love  in  the  world.  Bazarov  hated  almost  everything 
and  everybody.  They  quarreled  once,  and  came  to  the  very 
verge  of  fighting,  a  climax  that  was  averted  by  a  frank  retreat 
on  Arkady's  part,  for  he  treasured  still  the  wreck  of  the  passion- 


92  FATHERS  AND   SONS 

ate  friendship  with  which  he  had  taken  the  strange  man  to  his 
heart.  When  Bazarov  again  journeyed,  Arkady  went  with  him, 
and  they  returned  to  the  home  of  the  Kirsanovs. 

Affairs  there  were  as  before.  Nikolai  worried  about  the 
business  details,  Fenitchka  devoted  herself  to  the  baby,  and 
Pavel  loitered  elegantly  through  the  days,  keeping  discreetly 
out  of  Bazarov's  way,  but  lingering  near  Fenitchka  so  much  that 
she  was  disturbed;  for  Pavel  was  the  only  person  she  feared,  and 
she  could  not  have  told  the  reason  why  she  feared  him.  He  had 
little  to  say  to  her,  but  at  unexpected  moments  appeared  before 
her  without  any  apparent  reason.  This  habit  of  his  increased 
after  the  return  of  Bazarov,  who  plunged  into  study  and  was 
hardly  seen  by  anybody,  except  at  meal  times,  or  when  he  was 
consulted  in  his  professional  capacity. 

Arkady  dragged  through  ten  days  at  home,  and  then  an- 
nounced that  he  was  going  to  inspect  the  Sunday-schools  in  the 
town  to  which  he  and  his  friend  had  paid  their  former  visit. 
Bazarov  knew  that  he  was  going  to  see  Madame  Odintsov,  but 
he  said  nothing.  A  few  days  after  Arkady's  departure  Bazarov 
came  upon  Fenitchka  in  an  arbor.  She  had  a  quantity  of  roses 
that  she  had  plucked  for  the  table.  They  had  become  great 
friends,  and  talked  now  in  a  half-bantering  way — at  least  on  his 
part — ^which  is  often  the  mark  of  friendly  intimacy.  The  mother 
expressed  her  gratitude  for  his  treatment  of  the  baby  during  a 
recent  illness,  and  Bazarov  gravely  suggested  payment.  She 
took  him  seriously  and  promised  to  speak  to  Nikolai  about  the 
matter,  when  he  laughed  and  demanded  a  rose.  She  quickly 
chose  the  loveliest  she  could  find,  and  he  induced  her  to  bend 
her  head  to  inhale  its  exquisite  fragrance.  He  stooped  then  and 
kissed  her  lips.  Both  were  startled  by  a  dry  cough.  Pavel 
looked  in,  made  an  inconsequential  remark,  and  walked  away. 
Fenitchka  gathered  up  her  roses  and  went  to  the  house,  saying, 
"You  did  very  wrong." 

Later  in  that  day  Pavel  paid  an  almost  unprecedented  visit 
to  the  room  where  Bazarov  worked.  He  leaned  negligently  on 
a  stick  he  had  brought  with  him,  apologized  for  intruding  on 
the  student,  but  he  desired  a  little  information:  what  was  his 
opinion  of  dueling?  Bazarov  replied  that  theoretically  he  was 
opposed  to  it.    In  fact — • 


IVAN  TURGfiNIEV  93 

"In  fact,"  interrupted  Pavel,  "if  you  were  insulted,  would 
you  fight?" 

"  I  certainly  should,"  Bazarov  replied. 

Pavel  laid  aside  his  stick.  "Then,"  said  he,  "there  need 
be  no  trouble,  for  I  must  fight  you." 

Bazarov  was  amazed.     "What  for?"  he  asked. 

"  I  could  explain,"  Pavel  answered,  "but  I  prefer  to  be  silent. 
To  my  idea,  your  presence  here  is  superfluous.  I  cannot  endure 
you.     I  despise  you;  and  if  that  is  not  enough  for  you — " 

Pavel's  eyes  glittered.     Bazarov's,  too,  were  flashing. 

"Very  good,"  he  assented.  "No  need  of  further  explana- 
tions." 

Very  coolly  they  proceeded  to  arrange  for  their  combat  on 
the  following  morning,  without  seconds,  but  with  a  trusted  serv- 
ant for  a  witness.  It  was  their  purpose  to  keep  all  knowledge 
of  the  affair  from  Nikolai.  Bazarov  was  disgusted  with  the  sit- 
uation. He  had  no  wish  to  kill  Pavel,  much  as  he  despised  him, 
and  his  disdain  was  all  the  greater  for  recognizing  that  PavePs 
hostility  had  been  brought  to  a  head  by  the  kiss  he  had  seen 
pressed  upon  the  lips  of  Nikolai's  mistress.  "He  loves  her!" 
thought  Bazarov,  with  ineffable  contempt. 

They  met  at  daybreak,  as  agreed,  took  their  weapons,  which 
Pavel  had  loaded,  Bazarov  declining  to  examine  them,  and 
faced  each  other.  Pavel  gave  the  word,  and  they  approached 
each  other  leisurely.  Bazarov  felt,  rather  than  heard,  a  hissing 
past  his  ear,  and  then  he  heard  the  report  of  a  pistol.  With 
shrinking  repugnance  he  raised  his  weapon,  hardly  pretending 
to  aim,  and  fired.  Pavel  staggered,  fell,  and  fainted.  The 
bullet  had  entered  his  leg.  The  servant,  crazed  with  fright, 
disobeyed  orders  and  ran  for  Nikolai,  who  came  at  once  and 
found  his  brother  alive  and  Bazarov  attending  to  his  wound 
with  all  a  surgeon's  skill.  It  was  a  severe  wound,  but  not  fatal, 
not  even  dangerous.  Pavel  was  taken  to  the  house  and  a  doctor 
summoned  from  the  town,  for  Bazarov,  of  course,  departed  as 
soon  as  he  decently  could. 

There  was  some  fever  and  delirium  attending  Pavel's  illness, 
and  when  he  raved  it  was  about  the  wonderful  likeness  between 

Fenitchka  and  the  Princess  R ,  the  flame  of  his  younger 

days.    The  simple-hearted  Nikolai,  hearing  all,  never  suspected 


94  FATHERS  AND   SONS 

the  significance  of  his  brother's  allusions.  When  Pavel  was 
convalescent  he  called  Nikolai  to  him,  and  with  the  most  touch- 
ing manifestations  of  affection  asked  him  whether  he  would  not 
do  justice  to  Fenitchka  by  marrying  her,  a  suggestion  that 
Nikolai  received  with  extravagant  joy.  He  would  have  married 
her  long  before  but  that  he  had  supposed  it  would  cause  a  rup- 
ture of  fraternal  relations. 

Meantime  Arkady  went  to  Madame  Odintsov's  estate.  He 
had  not  sent  word  of  his  coming,  and  a  hundred  times  was 
tempted  to  turn  back  on  his  journey.  At  last  his  carriage  was 
at  the  gate.  He  left  it  there  and  went  in  afoot.  Katya  was 
reading  in  the  shade  of  a  tree.  She  welcomed  him  joyfully,  and 
Arkady  felt  deep  gladness  to  see  her.  Presently  she  took  him 
to  Madame  Odintsov,  who  was  surprisingly  cordial,  and  Arkady 
felt  confused.  The  days  passed  pleasantly,  and  on  this  visit 
Arkady  was  quite  as  much  with  Katya  as  he  had  been  before, 
but  this  time  it  was  from  his  own  choice.  He  had  made  his 
journey  longing  to  see  Madame  Odintsov;  it  was  not  until  after 
his  arrival  that  he  realized  it  was  Katya  he  loved. 

Bazarov  came  on  his  way  back  to  the  paternal  home.  He, 
too,  could  not  resist  the  fascination  of  Madame  Odintsov,  but 
he  did  not  renew  his  declaration.  She  persuaded  him  to  remain 
for  more  than  the  call  he  ostensibly  intended,  and  he  lingered 
several  days.  It  was  while  he  was  there  that  Arkady  opened 
his  heart  to  Katya.  The  girl  loved  him,  and  Madame  Odintsov's 
consent  to  their  marriage  was  granted  readily,  although  she  was 
astounded  at  the  revelation.  She  had  perceived  her  own  power 
over  Arkady,  but  had  been  blind  to  the  gradual  change  which 
enabled  him  to  slip  away  from  it.  Bazarov  had  seen  what  was 
coming,  and  he  had  the  satisfaction,  if  such  it  was,  of  believing 
that  Madame  Odintsov  had  come  to  love  Arkady. 

Bazarov  proceeded  to  his  father's  house,  bringing  utterly 
unlooked-for  delight  to  his  old  parents.  He  told  them  he  would 
stay  at  least  six  weeks  this  time,  but  he  insisted  that  he  must  be 
allowed  to  work  undisturbed,  and  they  regarded  his  wishes  with 
painful  exactitude.  He  worked  incessantly.  Not  long  after 
his  arrival  there  was  occasion  to  make  a  post-mortem  examina- 
tion of  the  body  of  a  peasant  who  had  died  of  the  plague. 
Bazarov  used  the  local  doctor's  instruments,  and  accidentally 


IVAN  TURGfiNIEV  95 

cut  himself  on  the  finger.  He  neglected  the  matter — for  the 
local  physician  had  no  caustic — until  his  return  home  four  hours 
later.  It  was  then  too  late.  The  terrible  disease  attacked  him 
quickly  and  brought  him  low.  He  met  death  rebelliously.  In 
no  particular  did  he  give  up  his  destructive  views  as  the  fatal 
hour  approached;  but  he  resented  his  fate  with  intense  bitter- 
ness. His  one  shadow  of  comfort  was  a  visit  paid  to  him  by 
Madame  Odintsov,  to  whom  he  sent  word  that  he  was  dying. 
She  brought  a  celebrated  physician  with  her,  but  nothing  could 
be  done.  She  went  into  his  chamber  and  looked  at  him  with  a 
feeling  of  blank  dismay;  and  it  flashed  upon  her  that  she  could 
not  have  felt  thus  if  she  had  really  loved  him.  He  begged  a  kiss 
from  her,  and  she  touched  her  lips  to  his  brow.  Not  long  after- 
ward his  brain  reeled  and  he  fell  into  a  sleep  from  which  he  did 
not  awake. 

Six  months  later  there  was  a  double  wedding  in  the  parish 
church  on  Kirsanov's  estate.  Katya  became  the  wife  of  Arkady, 
and  Fenitchka  the  wife  of  Nikolai. 


SMOKE    (1867) 

This  novel  followed  Fathers  and  Sons  in  point  of  time,  and,  although  con- 
sidered simply  as  stories  the  two  novels  are  absolutely  independent  of  each  other, 
the  later  work  is  in  an  important  sense  a  sequel  of  the  first.  The  background  of 
Smoke  is  again  that  upheaval  of  thought  in  Russia  which  promised  a  revolution, 
but  never  accomplished  it.  Nihilism  was  pictured  in  its  philosophical  beginnings 
in  Fathers  and  Sons;  in  Smoke  the  agitation  is  in  a  stage  of  transition  preliminary 
to  the  development  of  terrorism  in  another  decade,  when  inactive  thinkers  ap- 
parently gave  place  to  actual  destroyers  to  whom  the  world  at  large  applied  the 
term  "Nihilism,"  which  Turgeniev  had  fastened  on  the  forerunners  of  the 
movement.  Turgeniev  was  still  a  Liberal  when  he  wrote  Smoke y  but  he  punc- 
tured the  windbags  and  lashed  the  charlatans  among  the  so-called  advanced 
thinkers  more  mercilessly  than  in  the  earlier  novel,  which  had  aroused  the 
hostility  of  the  new  thought.  The  discussions  that  abound  in  the  book  show 
the  would-be  leaders  of  Russia's  progress  in  a  most  unlovely  light,  and  the 
author,  consequently,  was  still  further  alienated  from  the  party  whose  general 
purpose  was  as  dear  to  him  as  it  had  ever  been. 

|N  August,  1862,  Grigory  Litvinov  was  one  of  the 
Russian  contingent  in  the  floating  population  that 
made  Baden,  during  the  season,  a  cosmopoHtan 
city;  but  he  was  not  there  to  play  roulette,  or  to 
mingle  with  the  vainglorious  "intellectuals"  who 
imagined  that  they  were  destroying  the  traditions 
of  the  world  in  general  and  shaping  the  future 
of  Russia  in  particular.  Litvinov  merely  glanced 
at  the  gaming-tables;  as  for  politics,  he  had  no 
opinions,  and  he  was  not  aware  that  he  had  so  much  as  bowing 
acquaintance  with  any  leader  of  thought.  His  presence  there 
was  due  merely  to  the  fact  that  Baden  was  a  convenient  place 
for  meeting  his  betrothed,  Tatyana  Shestov.  She  was  traveling 
with  her  aunt,  and  it  had  been  arranged  that  he  should  join  them 
in  Baden  and  escort  them  to  Russia,  where  the  wedding  was  to 
be  an  event  of  the  near  future.  Tatyana  had  been  unable  to  reach 
Baden  at  the  appointed  time,  for  her  aunt  fell  ill  in  Dresden; 
but  as  the  illness  was  in  no  degree  alarming  she  had  been  un- 
willing to  modify  the  general  plan  of  the  journey  and  had  written 
Litvinov  asking  him  to  await  them  at  their  original  rendezvous. 

96 


IVAN  TURGENIEV  97 

Litvinov  was  thirty  years  old.  He  had  been  a  student  at  the 
University  of  Moscow  for  a  time,  but  had  left  without  completing 
his  course  and  entered  the  army.  There  followed  years  of  hard- 
ship, including  the  terrible  campaign  in  the  Crimea.  On  his  re- 
turn home  he  found  that  his  father,  a  plebeian  official,  was  in- 
capable of  handling  his  property  to  the  best  advantage  under 
the  new  conditions  (this  was  soon  after  the  emancipation  of  the 
serfs),  and  that  the  business,  so  to  speak,  of  land-owning  re- 
quired more  special  intelligence  than  had  been  devoted  to  it. 
With  the  idea  of  fitting  himself  to  develop  his  property  to  such 
a  degree  that  it  should  be  profitable,  the  son  visited  various 
countries  in  Western  Europe  and  spent  four  years  in  studying 
the  physical  sciences  with  particular  regard  to  their  application 
to  agriculture.  He  was  now  on  his  way  home  after  this  long 
absence. 

So  it  was  a  matter  of  killing  time  for  Litvinov  in  Baden,  and 
when  a  Moscow  acquaintance  invited  him  to  attend  an  informal 
meeting  where  several  persons  of  great  eminence  in  the  world 
of  thought  would  be  gathered,  there  was  nothing  better  to  do 
than  accept.  On  the  way  to  this  meeting  they  passed  a  lady  who 
glanced  at  Litvinov  and  halted  abruptly  with  a  startled  ex- 
pression; but  she  did  not  accost  him  and  he  did  not  see  her. 

The  meeting  bored  him.  So  far  as  he  could  discover,  the 
"  great  eminence  "  of  the  thinkers  was  confined  to  their  own  esti- 
mates of  themselves  loyally  echoed  by  a  litde  coterie  of  satellites. 
In  groups  of  two  to  a  dozen  they  vaporized  all  manner  of  modern 
theories  and  filled  the  room  with  tobacco  smoke.  They  were  ap- 
parently agreed  on  the  fundamental  proposition  that  everything 
established  was  bad,  but  what  were  their  conclusions,  what  they 
were  aiming  at,  it  was  difficult  to  see.  Perhaps  their  conclu- 
sions were  obscured  by  the  smoke.  At  all  events,  Litvinov 
could  not  avoid  wondering  what  all  the  pother  was  about.  There 
was  just  one  person  at  the  gathering  who  joined  in  no  discussion, 
a  middle-aged  man  of  somber  but  not  repellent  countenance. 
Litvinov  was  not  presented  to  him,  but  the  man  introduced  him- 
self later  when  they  chanced  to  meet  in  the  hotel.  His  name  was 
Potugin,  and  his  excuse  for  accosting  Litvinov  was  his  inference, 
from  the  young  man's  silence,  that  he  had  not  been  in  sympathy 
with  the  radical  views  expressed  at  the  meeting.    He  talked  long 

A.D.,  VOL.  xvn. — 7 


98  SMOKE 

and  sanely  with  Litvinov,  manifesting  a  sufficiently  liberal  tend- 
ency; but  he  was  unsparing  in  his  criticisms  of  the  self -chosen 
leaders  of  Young  Russia,  and  his  outlook  for  the  future  was 
tinged  with  gloom.  Whatever  hopes  he  may  have  cherished  for 
his  country,  he  was  in  despair  of  any  good  results  from  the  pres- 
ent movement.  Litvinov  found  this  man  interesting  in  spite 
of  his  pessimism,  w^hich  apparently  depressed  him  and  made 
him  positively  unhappy;  but  Potugin  evaded  the  younger  man's 
friendly  approaches  and  departed  at  length  without  giving  the 
other  the  opportunity  to  call  on  him. 

When  Litvinov  retired  to  his  room  he  found  a  great  bunch 
of  fresh  heliotrope  in  a  glass  of  water  set  in  his  window.  The 
fragrance  aroused  a  vague  sense  of  familiarity  that  he  could  not 
shake  off,  although  it  did  not  crystallize  in  any  distinct  memory. 
His  servant,  when  asked  about  it,  explained  that  a  lady  had  left 
the  flowers  but  not  her  name.  "The  Herr  Litvinov  will  guess 
who  I  am,"  she  had  said,  and  had  given  the  man  such  a  liberal 
douceur  that  he  was  sure  she  could  be  no  less  than  a  countess. 
Litvinov  was  utterly  mystified.  For  a  long  time  he  could  not 
sleep,  haunted  by  elusive  memories  associated  somehow  with 
heliotrope;  and  it  was  not  until  he  awaked  late  the  following 
morning  that  the  message  of  the  flowers  flashed  upon  him. 

His  student  days  stood  before  him  in  startling  distinctness. 
There  was  in  Moscow  at  that  time  an  impoverished  family  of 
noble  blood,  the  Princes  Osinin.  The  father  held  a  sinecure 
that  brought  almost  as  little  money  as  it  did  responsibility,  and 
there  seemed  to  be  no  possible  hope  that  the  family  could  ever 
regain  its  pretensions;  but  the  children  were  educated  after  the 
manner  of  the  nobility;  pride  reigned  in  the  household,  and 
tradesmen  bawled  their  insults  because  bills  were  never  paid  in 
full.  Litvinov  called  frequently  at  the  mean  little  house  of  the 
Osinins,  in  a  wretched  back  street,  because  he  had  fallen  in  love 
with  the  eldest  daughter,  Irina.  It  was  a  most  difficult  wooing, 
for  he  began  by  unwittingly  wounding  Irina's  pride,  and  for 
months  she  snubbed  him  whenever  she  condescended  to  speak 
to  him  at  all.  But  the  suitor's  patience  won  at  last;  the  beauty 
unbent  from  her  pride  and  became  submissive  and  sweetly 
affectionate.  Her  whole  character  seemed  to  change  under  the 
influence  of  Litvinov's  love;  instead  of  being  arrogant  to  her 


IVAN  TURGENIEV  99 

younger  sisters,  she  became  their  companion  and  helper;  for- 
merly an  almost  feared  member  of  the  household,  she  was  now 
its  serenest  joy,  and  diffused  sweetness  about  her. 

The  parents  did  not  utterly  oppose  Litvinov's  proposal  for 
Irina.  His  fortune  was  considerable,  but  he  was  a  plebeian,  and 
pride  suffered.  As  nothing  better  was  in  prospect,  the  parents 
simply  refrained  from  putting  a  veto  on  the  match,  and  the 
young  people,  therefore,  discussed  their  future  as  if  everything 
were  settled.  Then  came  the  court  to  Moscow,  and  in  the 
course  of  the  winter  there  was  a  great  ball  to  which  all  persons 
of  princely  rank  were  entitled  to  be  present.  Irina's  father  took 
it  into  his  he^-d  that  he  must  go;  he  called  it  a  duty  to  his  sover- 
eign; and  he  declared  that  Irina  must  go  with  him.  The  girl 
mystified  him  by  refusing.  Perplexed,  he  asked  Litvinov  to 
use  his  influence  with  her  to  the  end  that  she  should  go  and  be 
presented.  Litvinov  did  so,  and,  yielding  to  her  lover's  per- 
suasion, Irina  unwillingly  consented.  She  was  manifestly  ap- 
prehensive of  some  danger.  In  view  of  later  developments  it 
is  probable  that  she  already  recognized  her  unusual  power  of 
fascination,  and  nobody  needed  to  tell  her  of  her  physical  beauty. 
She  also  knew  her  own  weakness,  her  distaste  for  poverty,  her 
ambition  for  the  glitter  of  high  life.  Irina  did  not  confide  such 
fears,  if  these  they  were,  to  Litvinov,  but  warned  him  vaguely 
that  if  ill  came  of  it  he  must  remember  that  he  wished  her  to  go; 
and  she  made  it  a  condition  that  he  himself  should  be  absent. 
Litvinov  agreed  wonderingly  to  this,  and  on  the  night  of  the  ball 
called  at  her  house  to  see  her  in  her  court  costume  and  to  give  her 
a  bunch  of  heliotrope. 

Irina's  beauty  attracted  unbounded  attention.  There  was  a 
distant  relative  of  her  father's  who  was  an  official  of  some  im- 
portance at  St.  Petersburg.  He  observed  her  success  and  per- 
ceived that  such  a  girl  in  his  household  would  be  of  decided 
advantage  in  the  promotion  of  his  social  aims.  That  very  night 
he  offered  Prince  Osinin  a  sum  of  money  to  let  him  adopt  Irina, 
and  dazzled  the  girl  with  prospects  of  a  brilliant  life  at  the 
capital.  Her  father  accepted  the  money,  and  Irina  wrote  her 
lover  a  pathetic  note  of  dismissal.  The  shock  to  him  was  so 
severe  that  he  found  it  impossible  to  continue  his  university 
career;  thus  it  was  that  he  had  left  Moscow  and  sought  to  throw 


loo  SMOKE 

his  life  away  in  battle.  And  now,  ten  years  afterward,  was  it 
possible  that  Irina  was  near,  and  that  she  remembered? 

That  very  morning  he  met  her.  He  had  climbed  up  to  the 
castle  and  was  resting  when  a  party  of  fashionable  people 
paused  for  refreshments.  Irina  was  among  them.  She  recog- 
nized Litvinov,  spoke  to  him  frankly,  and  presented  him  to  her 
husband,  General  Ratmirov.  He  spent  several  uncomfortable 
minutes  beside  her  at  the  table,  and  when  at  last  she  permitted 
him  to  withdraw  it  was  on  condition  that  he  should  call  upon 
her  at  her  hotel.  He  returned  to  his  hotel  feeling  a  profound 
disgust  for  the  environment  in  which  he  found  Irina.  She  was 
in  a  society  of  chatterboxes,  herself  a  brilliant  ornament  of 
frivolity.  It  was  for  this  that  she  had  sacrificed  the  noblest 
impulses  of  her  nature!  Ah,  well,  she  had  chosen  her  life;  it 
was  well  that  she  had  done  so,  for  she  never  could  have  been 
content  with  him  and  his  ways.  His  sane  love  for  Tatyana 
welled  up  within  him.  The  thought  of  her  was  like  a  bene- 
diction.    He  wished  that  she  could  come  to  Baden  at  once. 

Litvinov  disregarded  the  promise  he  had  given  to  Irina  at  the 
castle;  that  is,  that  day  and  the  next  passed  and  he  did  not  call 
upon  her.  About  noon  of  the  third  day  Potugin  came  to  him 
and,  with  some  manifestation  of  embarrassment,  brought  a 
verbal  message  from  Irina.  It  was  to  the  effect  that  he  should 
call  upon  her  at  once.  Litvinov  frankly  expressed  his  surprise 
that  Madame  Ratmirov  should  have  chosen  Potugin  for  her 
messenger,  but  his  inquiries  elicited  nothing  clearer  than  the 
admission  that  Potugin  was  her  friend;  and  the  end  of  the  matter 
was  that  both  went  to  the  H6tel  de  PEurope,  where  General 
Ratmirov  had  apartments. 

Potugin  left  abruptly  soon  after  they  had  been  admitted  to 
Madame  Ratmirov's  presence,  and  then  Irina,  without  preface, 
owned  to  an  insistent  desire  to  see  her  former  lover.  She  begged 
his  forgiveness  for  the  wrong  done  him  in  the  past,  and  there  was 
evident  sincerity  in  the  regret  she  expressed.  Litvinov  assured 
her  that  he  cherished  no  bitterness,  but  he  hesitated  when  she 
asked  him  to  speak  of  himself.  Again  she  was  insistent,  and  her 
promptings  of  his  memory  showed  that  she  had  kept  track  of 
him  all  these  years.  He  was  surprised,  mystified  at  this  revela- 
tion, and  at  length  haltingly  told  his  story,  or  part  of  it,  pausing 


IVAN  TURGfiNIEV  loi 

before  he  came  to  his  engagement  to  Tatyana,  and  rcHcved  of 
telling  that  by  the  entrance  of  Irina's  husband.  The  gentlemen 
exchanged  a  few  stiffly  polite  phrases,  and  Litvinov  withdrew. 
Irina  accompanied  him  to  the  door  and  said  in  a  low  voice: 
"You  didn't  tell  me  everything.  I  understand  you  are  going 
to  be  married."  There  was  no  opportunity  then  for  more  than 
a  hasty  good-by. 

The  next  morning  in  the  course  of  a  walk  he  saw  Irina  and 
passed  her  without  recognition.  Two  hours  later  he  met  her 
again,  and  this  time  she  accosted  him,  almost  tearfully  taking 
him  to  task  for  cutting  her.  To  her  insistent  "Why?"  he  re- 
sponded: "You  ask  for  the  truth,  so  think  for  yourself;  to  what 
but  a  desire  to  try  how  much  power  you  still  have  over  me  can 
I  attribute  your  persistence?  What  is  the  object,  what  is  the 
use  of  our  faceting?  There  is  absolutely  nothing  in  common 
between  us  now." 

Irina's  face  expressed  the  sharpest  pain.  "Grigory,"  she 
said,  "if  I  imagined  I  had  the  least  power  over  you,  I  would 
avoid  you.  I  wanted  to  renew  my  acquaintance  with  you  be- 
cause society  is  too  insufferable,  too  unbearably  stifling.  You 
are  a  live  man;  after  all  those  puppets  you  have  seen  me  with, 
you  are  like  an  oasis  in  the  desert.  You  suspect  me  of  flirting 
and  despise  me  because  I  wronged  you,  when  I  wronged  myself 
far  more.  I  have  no  pride  now.  I  ask  for  charity.  Do  not 
spurn  me,  but  give  me  a  tiny  spark  of  sympathy." 

Thus  she  pleaded,  begging  that  he  would  be  her  friend,  that 
he  would  come  to  see  her  once  more;  and  Litvinov,  though  he 
frankly  confessed  that  he  could  not  understand  her,  gave  her 
his  promise  to  do  so. 

She  had  asked  him  to  come  to  her  the  next  time  on  an  occa- 
sion when  they  could  not  possibly  be  alone.  It  was  at  a  recep- 
tion in  her  apartments.  After  the  first  formal  introductions  to 
persons  with  whom  he  had  no  wish  to  converse,  and  who  did 
not  care  to  know  him,  Litvinov  was  seated  in  an  obscure  corner, 
but  near  Irina.  All  around  was  a  Babel  of  voices  uttering  as 
many  follies  of  another  kind  as  had  buzzed  at  the  meeting  of  the 
thinkers.  Here  was  brilliance  of  raiment,  the  pomposity  of 
rank,  the  crushing  insolence  of  power;  and  it  all  seemed  as  empty, 
as  pointless  as  that  other  talk  and  show.     Irina  turned  to  him 


102  SMOKE 

from  time  to  time  with  a  thinly  veiled  expression  of  contempt 
when  some  especially  stupid  remark  was  made,  as  if  to  say: 
You  see  what  sort  of  atmosphere  I  live  in;  this  is  the  gay,  the 
high  life  which  is  supposed  to  bring  happiness!  Litvinov  sat 
like  one  spellbound,  hearing  nothing,  waiting  for  nothing  but  for 
those  splendid  eyes  to  sparkle  again,  that  exquisite  face  to  flash 
upon  him. 

When  he  returned  to  his  rooms  he  sat  for  a  long  time,  head 
in  his  hands,  thinking.  Then  he  drew  forth  a  photograph  of 
Tatyana  and  looked  intently  at  it.  "All  is  at  an  end,"  he  whis- 
pered at  last.  "Oh,  Irina!"  Only  now,  only  at  that  instant, 
he  realized  that  he  was  irrevocably,  senselessly  in  love  with 
her,  that  he  never  had  ceased  to  love  her.  "  But  Tatyana, 
my  God!  Tatyana!"  he  repeated  in  contrition;  and  Irina's 
shape  rose  before  his  eyes,  radiant  with  the  calm  smile  of 
victory. 

Litvinov  did  not  go  to  bed  that  night.  As  an  honest  and 
straightforward  man,  he  realized  the  force  of  obligations,  the 
sacredness  of  duty,  and  would  have  been  ashamed  of  any  double- 
dealing  with  himself  and  his  weakness.  Loyalty  to  his  pledge 
was  his  only  safety,  and  the  end  of  his  miserable  reflections  on 
the  situation  was  a  decision  to  leave  Baden  at  once  and  go  to 
Tatyana.  The  same  straightforwardness  that  prompted  this 
course  led  him  to  go  to  Irina  as  soon  as  possible  and  acquaint 
her  with  it.  He  found  it  a  difficult  task  to  tell  her  his  errand, 
but  he  did  so  unequivocally. 

"I  have  met  with  a  great  misfortune,"  he  said;  "I  find  that 
I  love  you." 

Irina  put  her  hands  suddenly  to  her  face,  and  he  could  not 
tell  what  feelings  may  have  been  reflected  there.  He  added 
that  he  would  go  away,  and  when  he  withdrew,  she  still  sat  with 
her  face  concealed.  He  walked  vigorously  for  three  hours,  try- 
ing to  quell  the  tumult  in  his  heart.  Then  he  returned  to  his 
hotel  and  sent  a  telegram  to  Tatyana  to  the  effect  that  he  was 
going  to  Heidelberg,  and  asking  her  to  meet  him  there.  This 
done,  he  went  again  to  the  Hotel  de  TEurope.  In  that  last  brief 
interview  Irina  had  begged  him  to  come  and  bid  her  good-by. 
This  visit  was  not  due  to  sudden  temptation,  or  involuntary 
yielding  to  the  desire  of  his  heart;  it  was  a  deliberate  step,  taken 


IVAN  TURGfiNIEV  103 

coolly,  and  with  no  purpose  other  than  the  literal  one  involved 
in  a  farewell  call. 

He  entered  unannounced  and  found  Irina  sitting  just  where 
he  had  left  her,  wearing  the  same  dress.  It  was  as  if  the  shock 
of  his  revelation  had  deprived  her  of  the  power  of  motion.  "  I 
am  going  at  seven  this  evening,"  he  told  her. 

"  You  have  proved  your  affection  by  coming  to  say  good-by," 
she  said,  speaking  with  manifest  difficulty.  "I  fully  approve 
your  decision  to  go  away,  because  any  delay — ^because — because 
I,  whom  you  have  accused  of  flirting — because  I  love  you!" 

Litvinov  staggered  as  if  somebody  had  struck  him  heavily 
in  the  chest. 

"I  love  you,"  Irina  repeated,  her  face  again  in  her  hands, 
"and  you  know  it." 

"I — know  it?"  echoed  Litvinov  blankly. 

"And  now  you  see,"  she  continued,  "how  necessary  it  is  for 
you  to  go  away.    To  remain  would  be  dangerous  for  both  of  us." 

She  arose,  then,  and  held  out  her  hand,  but  Litvinov  re- 
mained stock-still.  With  a  half-inarticulate  good-by,  she  has- 
tened from  the  room  to  her  boudoir  and  locked  the  door  behind 
her.  Litvinov  came  partly  to  himself.  "Irina!"  he  called, 
and  he  went  to  the  locked  door  and  knocked.  He  called  three 
times.  There  was  no  answer,  and  he  took  his  departure  as  one 
who  walks  in  his  sleep.  Arrived  at  his  hotel,  he  packed  his  trunk, 
ordered  a  conveyance  to  take  him  to  the  seven  o'clock  train,  and 
waited  for  the  time  to  pass.  He  concentrated  his  mind  on  his 
aim :  to  meet  his  betrothed,  or,  rather,  to  reach  his  hotel  in  Hei- 
delberg. What  might  happen  after  that  was  not  certain.  It 
came  to  be  a  quarter  after  six.  How  the  time  dragged.  The 
door  behind  him  opened  and  shut  softly;  he  turned;  a  woman, 
muffled  in  a  cloak — 

"Irina!"  he  cried.  She  raised  her  head  and  fell  on  his 
breast. 

Two  hours  later  he  was  still  in  his  room  in  the  hotel  at  Baden. 
His  tnmk  was  unpacked.  On  the  table  was  a  letter  from  Tat- 
yana,  saying  that  her  aunt  had  recovered,  that  they  were  on  the 
way,  and  would  arrive  in  Baden  on  the  following  morning.  His 
telegram  had  not  reached  her. 


I04  SMOKE 

With  infinite  torture  Litvinov  waited  for  the  train  bringing 
his  betrothed.  He  nerved  himself  to  the  utmost  to  appear  com- 
posed, and,  of  course,  overdid  it.  In  the  confusion  of  the  rail- 
v^ay  station  his  own  confusion  was  unnoticeable,  but  afterward, 
in  the  carriage,  at  the  hotel,  in  the  course  of  the  sightseeing 
which  the  good-natured  aunt  insisted  on  doing  at  once,  there 
was  constraint  that  any  sensitive  woman  in  Tatyana's  position 
could  not  have  failed  to  notice.  Their  first  opportunity  to  be 
alone  came  in  the  afternoon  when  the  aunt  took  her  nap.  Lit- 
vinov had  been  summoned  by  Irina  at  that  hour,  and  he  left 
his  betrothed  on  a  flimsy  pretext. 

General  Ratmirov  was  waiting  to  accompany  his  wife  to  a 
social  function,  and  Litvinov  had  to  see  her  secretly  in  the  trunk- 
room  of  the  apartment  whither  a  servant  of  Irina's,  who  had 
been  on  the  lookout,  conducted  him.  Irina  had  only  this  to  say 
— that,  in  spite  of  what  had  happened  the  day  before,  he  must 
feel  himself  free. 

"Irina,"  he  cried,  "why  are  you  saying  this?" 

"Oh,  my  sweet  one!"  she  whispered,  "you  don't  know  how 
I  love  you,  but  yesterday  I  only  paid  my  debt;  I  have  laid  no  ob- 
ligations on  you.  Do  what  you  will,  you  are  as  free  as  air, 
understand  that!" 

"But  I  can't  live  without  you,"  Litvinov  interrupted.  "I 
am  yours  forever  since  yesterday,"  and  he  kissed  her  hand. 

"Then  let  me  say,"  she  said,  "that  I  too  am  ready  for  any- 
thing.    As  you  decide,  so  shall  it  be.     I  am  ever  yours — yours!" 

Her  husband  called  impatiently,  and  she  slipped  back  to  the 
living  rooms  of  the  apartment. 

Litvinov  could  then  have  returned  to  Tatyana  and  talked 
with  her  alone,  but  he  did  not.  When  evening  came  he  ap- 
peared before  her  and  her  aunt  and  did  escort  duty  again,  and 
on  the  morning  following  he  sought  Tatyana  while  the  aunt 
was  shopping.  "I  have  something  important  to  say,"  he  began 
lamely.  After  he  had  floundered  a  moment  in  unfinished  sen- 
tences, she  helped  him.  "You  do  not  love  me  any  longer; 
that's  it,  isn't  it?"  said  she. 

"  Oh,  Tatyana,"  he  groaned,  "  it  isn't  that  I  don't  love  you, 
but  I  am  the  victim  of  another  passion,  different,  terrible,  irre- 
sistible.   It  has  ruined  me  hopelessly." 


IVAN  TURGfiNIEV  105 

She  questioned  him  a  little,  a  very  little,  and  then  said:  "I 
do  not  reproach  you,  I  do  not  blame  you.  I  agree  with  you. 
The  bitterest  truth  is  better  than  what  went  on  yesterday." 

A  little  later  the  aunt  returned,  and  the  new  situation  was 
made  known  to  her.  While  she  hysterically  upbraided  Litvinov, 
Tatyana  wrote  a  letter  which  she  begged  Litvinov  to  post  for 
her.  She  was  very  insistent  that  he  should  attend  to  it  person- 
ally, and  he  went  forth  to  do  her  bidding.  When  he  returned, 
Tatyana  and  her  aunt  had  left  the  hotel.  They  had  packed 
hastily,  surrendered  their  rooms,  and  gone  from  Baden. 

Clandestine  meetings  with  Irina  followed  and  an  exchange 
of  notes,  all  hurried,  excited,  but  tending  to  a  speedy  elopement. 
It  came  to  the  time  when  Litvinov  was  making  the  actual  prep- 
arations. He  had  taken  account  of  his  ready  money,  was  plan- 
ning to  sell  'certain  forest  property,  was  considering  the  ques- 
tions of  passports,  when  a  note  came  from  Irina  in  which  were 
the  following  lines:  "I  cannot  run  away  with  you;  I  have  not  the 
strength  to  do  it.  .  .  .  I  am  full  of  horror,  of  hatred  for  myself, 
but  I  can't  do  otherwise,  I  can't,  I  can't.  ...  I  am  yours,  do 
with  me  as  you  will,  when  you  will,  free  from  all  obligation,  but 
run  away,  throw  up  everything?  No!  No!  Our  project  was 
lovely,  but  impracticable;  but  don't  abandon  me,  don't  abandon 
your  Irina.  We  soon  go  to  St.  Petersburg;  come  there,  live 
there;  only  live  near  me,  only  love  me.  Come  soon  to  me.  I 
shall  not  have  an  instant's  peace  until  I  see  you." 

The  blow  was  bewildering  at  first.  Litvinov  put  on  his  hat 
and  walked  around  the  room,  but  he  did  not  go  out.  When  his 
brain  cleared  he  packed  his  trunk  and  paid  his  bill.  Then  he 
wrote  Irina  briefly  that  he  could  not  do  as  she  wished,  and  that 
he  should  leave  Baden  on  the  early  morning  train. 

He  was  just  taking  his  seat  in  the  railway  carriage  when  he 
heard  his  name  in  a  whisper.  It  was  Irina.  "  Come  back,  come 
back ! "  her  weary  eyes  were  saying.  Litvinov  was  almost  beaten, 
could  hardly  keep  from  running  to  her;  but  he  leaped  into  the 
carriage,  turned,  and  beckoned  Irina  to  take  the  vacant  seat 
beside  him.  She  understood  him.  There  was  still  time,  but 
while  she  hesitated  the  whistle  sounded  and  the  train  started. 

For  three  years  Litvinov  toiled  incessantly  on  his  estate. 
There  was  no  enthusiasm  in  his  work,  but  it  was  effective,  never- 


io6  SMOKE 

theless,  and  the  property  began  to  flourish.  One  day  a  distant 
relative  of  Tatyana  visited  him  in  the  course  of  a  journey,  and 
Litvinov  learned  the  details  of  her  life  since  their  separation. 
She  had  become  beloved  for  her  good  works  by  all  the  people  in 
her  neighborhood.  It  was  evident  that  life  meant  nothing  to 
her  now  save  as  she  could  be  useful  to  others.  Litvinov  wrote 
to  her,  trembling  for  fear  of  what  her  answer  might  be.  She 
replied  with  simple  cordiality  and  welcomed  the  visit  he  sug- 
gested. He  lost  no  time  in  making  it,  and  the  moment  he  was 
in  her  presence,  without  the  slightest  premeditation,  he  fell  on 
his  knees  and  begged  her  forgiveness.  "What  is  this?"  she 
cried,  and  just  then  her  aunt  came  in. 

"Don't  hinder  him,"  said  the  old  lady;  "don't  you  see  that 
the  sinner  has  repented?" 


GIOVANNI   VERGA 

(Sicily,  1840) 
THE  MALAVOGLIA   (1881) 

This  romance  is  the  first  of  a  series  of  stories  of  the  Sicilian  people  entitled 
The  Conquered,  which  deals  with  the  weak  or  the  unfortunate  who  get  thrown 
out  of  the  current  and  are  forced  to  bow  their  heads  before  the  brute  force  of 
the  conquerors  of  various  sorts.  In  The  Malavoglia  the  question  is  simply  the 
struggle  for  the  satisfaction  of  material  needs.  The  next  degree  in  the  ascend- 
ing social  scale  fs  represented  by  Don  Gesualdo,  who  inhabits  a  small  provincial 
town.  Then  comes  the  exposition  of  aristocratic  vanity,  set  forth  in  La  Dtcchessa 
de  Leyra,  and  ambition,  in  Onorevole  Scipioni  ("The  Honorable  Scipioni"). 
In  //  Uomo  di  lusso  ("The  Man  of  Luxury")  all  these  desires,  vanities,  ambi- 
tions are  summed  up,  character  becoming  constantly  more  complicated  as  the 
family  struggles  upward.  All  of  these  are  among  the  "conquered"  whom  the 
current  has  cast  upon  the  shore,  having  tempest-tossed  and  drowned  them. 

[NCE  upon  a  time  the  Malavoglia  were  as  numer- 
ous as  the  pebbles  on  the  old  road  of  Trezza,  all 
fine,  hardy  sailors,  and  precisely  the  opposite  of 
what  their  name  betokened  (malevolence).  From 
father  to  son,  they  had  always  had  boats  on  the 
seas.  But  now  none  was  left  except  the  family 
of  Padron  'Ntoni,  who  lived  in  the  House  of  the 
Medlar-tree  and  owned  the  bark  Provvidenza. 
The  storms  that  had  dispersed  the  other  Mala- 
voglia had  done  no  great  damage  to  this  family,  which  fact  Pa- 
dron 'Ntoni  was  wont  to  explain  by  showing  his  clenched  fist, 
which  seemed  made  of  walnut-wood,  and  saying:  ^'In  order  to 
wield  the  oar,  the  five  fijigers  must  help  one  another — all  must 
work  in  harmony."  And  this  was  the  case  with  his  family. 
He  was  the  thumb;  then  came  his  son  Bastianazzo,  as  big  as  the 
St.  Cristoforo  painted  under  the  arch  of  the  city  fish-market, 
but  very  docile,  who  had  married  his  efficient  wife,  Maruzza,  to 
order.  The  rest  of  the  family  consisted  of  Bastianazzo's  chil- 
dren; 'Ntoni,  a  stupid  fellow  of  twenty  years,  whom  'Ntoni  the 

107 


io8  THE  MALAVOGLIA 

elder  kept  in  order  by  cufiFs,  with  kicks  to  restore  his  equilibrium 
when  the  cuffs  had  upset  it;  Luca,  who  had  more  sense  than  his 
big  brother,  said  the  grandfather;  Mena  (Filomena),  sumamed 
**Sant'  Agata,"  because  she  was  always  at  her  loom;  Alessi 
(Alessio),  who  was  the  image  of  his  grandfather;  and  Lia  (Ro- 
salia), who  was  as  yet  a  mere  child.  Padron  'Ntoni  was  fond 
of  quoting  proverbs,  to  the  effect  "shoemaker,  stick  to  your 
last,"  and  acted  upon  this  plan;  hence  the  House  of  the  Medlar- 
tree  flourished  (there  was  a  tree  in  ihoir  courtyard),  and  Trezza 
wanted  to  make  Padron  'Ntoni  a  Communal  Councilor. 

In  December,  1863,  'Ntoni,  the  eldest  grandson,  was  con- 
scripted for  the  navy,  and  all  Padron  ' Ntoni' s  efforts  to  get  him 
free  were  unavailing.  Before  long  the  young  man  began  to 
write  home  complaining  of  the  life  on  shipboard,  of  the  disci- 
pline, and  of  his  superiors,  and  demanding  money  for  cakes. 
This  sort  of  letter  his  grandfather  did  not  consider  worth  the 
twenty  centesimi  it  cost  for  postage.  There  could  be  no  doubt 
as  to  its  meaning,  for  Padron  'Ntoni  went  secretly  to  the  apothe- 
cary, and  then  to  the  vicar,  and  got  them  to  read  it  for  him, 
in  order  to  compare  their  versions — ^which,  to  his  surprise, 
agreed. 

It  was  a  bad  year  for  the  fishing,  and  those  left  at  the  House 
of  the  Medlar-tree  were  not  able  to  manage  the  boat  without 
assistance.  Moreover,  Mena,  who  was  seventeen,  must  be 
married.  So  Padron  'Ntoni  arranged  with  Uncle  Crocifisso 
("crucifix")  to  purchase,  on  credit,  a  cargo  of  lupines,  thus 
departing  from  his  own  motto  to  stick  to  the  business  he  under- 
stood. He  meant  to  send  the  lupines  on  the  Provvidenza  to 
Riposto,  where  there  was  said  to  be  a  vessel  from  Trieste  seek- 
ing freight.  The  lupines  were  partly  spoiled;  but  no  others 
were  to  be  had  at  Trezza,  and  that  rogue  of  a  Crocifisso  knew 
that  the  Provvidenza  was  lying  idle;  so  he  would  not  lower  his 
price  by  a  single  farthing.  Gossip  Agostino  Piedipapcra  ("goose- 
foot"),  with  his  jests,  clenched  the  bargain,  and  Padron  ^Ntoni 
explained  to  his  family  that  it  would  take  Bastianazzo  only  a 
week  to  go  and  return;  their  bread  would  thereby  be  assured  for 
the  winter  and  Mena  could  have  some  earrings.  Maruzza  felt 
a  presentiment  of  evil,  but  said  nothing,  as  it  was  the  men's 
affair;  and  the  usurer.  Uncle  Crocifisso,  pretended  that  he  knew 


I 


GIOVANNI  VERGA  109 

nothing  about  the  lupines  being  spoiled;  and  so  the  bargain  was 
concluded. 

Padron  'Ntoni  hired  an  extra  hand,  and  the  Prowidenza  set 
sail  on  Saturday,  toward  evening.  The  entire  population  dis- 
cussed this  affair;  and  Padron  Cipolla,  who  was  very  well-to-do, 
asked  Padron  'Ntoni  whether  he  would  give  some  of  the  pro- 
ceeds of  the  expedition  to  his  granddaughter  Mena.  There  had 
already  been  some  talk  between  the  men  of  marrying  Mena  to 
Cipolla's  son  Brasi,  and  if  this  venture  should  succeed  Mena 
would  have  her  dowry  in  ready  money  and  the  marriage  would 
be  effected. 

Alfio  Mosca,  a  poor  but  energetic  young  fellow,  socially  of 
lower  rank  than  the  Malavoglia,  whose  neighbor  he  was,  loved 
Mena.  He  had  nothing  but  an  ass  and  a  little  cart,  but  confided 
to  Mena  his  ambition  to  purchase  a  mule,  become  a  real  carter, 
and  make  money.  He  begged  her  to  tell  him  should  she  dream 
of  a  good  number  for  a  lottery  ticket,  for  if  he  could  win  a  prize 
he  would  be  able  to  marry.  But  Mena  was  too  well  brought  up 
to  seem  to  understand  his  hint  or  to  let  him  divine  her  feelings. 

Soon  after  midnight  the  wind  began  to  blow  furiously,  and 
the  rain  descended  in  torrents.  The  next  day  the  beach  was 
deserted,  except  for  Padron  'Ntoni,  who  was  anxious  about  his 
bark  and  the  lupines,  and  the  nephew  of  Uncle  Crocifisso,  who 
had  nothing  to  lose  himself,  and  had  nothing  at  sea  but  his 
brother,  whom  'Ntoni  had  hired.  All  the  other  fishermen  had 
moored  their  barks  securely,  and  were  assembled  in  the  tavern 
of  La  Santuzza.  Those  people  who  went  to  church  that  morn- 
ing discussed  the  fate  of  the  Prowidenza  and  the  luck  of  the 
Malavoglia  between  their  prayers.  At  dusk  Maruzza  and  her 
children  went  to  the  strand.  The  men  on  their  way  from  the 
tavern  showed  her  unwonted  attentions,  which  alarmed  the  poor 
woman.  At  last,  one  more  callous  or  more  sympathetic  than  the 
rest  led  her  to  her  home,  where  Cousin  Anna  and  Piedipapera's 
wife  met  her  in  a  silence  which  told  her  the  fatal  news. 

The  worst  of  it  all  was  that  the  lupines  were  not  paid  for,  and 
Uncle  Crocifisso,  though  he  lent  money  readily,  was  a  harsh 
creditor.  At  the  House  of  the  Medlar-tree  everyone  was  crushed 
by  these  misfortunes,  and  refused  to  be  comforted  even  by  the 
recital  of  their  neighbor's  woes.     Those  who  knew  of  the  gossip 


1 


no  THE  MALAVOGLIA 

about  marrying  Padron  Cipolla's  son  to  Mena  declared  that  the 
wedding  should  take  place  now,  in  order  that  Maruzza  might 
be  diverted  from  her  grief.  But  Padron  Cipolla,  when  he  heard 
such  remarks,  coldly  turned  his  back  and  walked  away  in  silence. 

Meanwhile,  the  Provvidenza  had  been  towed,  much  dam- 
aged, from  the  spot  where  it  had  lodged  with  its  bow  among  the 
rocks;  but  although  the  shipwright  Zuppidda  declared  that  the 
hull  was  good,  and  could  be  repaired,  not  a  sign  of  the  lupines 
remained.  Padron  'Ntoni  still  felt  that  with  the  aid  of  young 
'Ntoni  he  would  be  able  to  make  his  way  again,  and  Mena  would 
once  more  become  a  good  match.  'Ntoni  jimior  had  only  six 
months  more  to  serve,  and  then  Luca  would  escape  conscription, 
said  Don  Silvestro,  the  communal  secretary.  But  'Ntoni  would 
not  wait  even  six  days,  and  as  soon  as  his  grandfather  had  ob- 
tained the  necessary  papers  he  came  walking  jauntily  home, 
with  his  cap  on  one  ear  and  his  shirt  with  the  stars.  The  Prov- 
videnza  was  not  ready,  but  Padron  'Ntoni  found  places  at  good 
wages  on  Padron  Cipolla's  bark  for  'Ntoni  the  younger  and 
himself.  The  youth  did  his  work  unwillingly,  was  insolent,  and 
grumbled  incessantly. 

Meanwhile,  the  rest  of  the  Malavoglia  were  working  hard; 
Maruzza  took  orders  for  weaving  and  did  washing;  Luca  went  to 
work  on  the  railway  for  fifty  centesimi  a  day,  and  little  Alessio 
hunted  crayfish  among  the  rocks,  or  worms  for  bait,  and  came 
home  with  bleeding  feet,  and  did  many  other  hard  tasks  for 
trifling  remimeration.  The  shipwright  must  be  paid  large  sums 
every  week,  and  the  date  when  the  debt  to  Uncle  Crocifisso 
fell  due  had  arrived.  Crocifisso  demanded  his  money,  but  the 
vicar  induced  him  to  wait  until  Christmas.  Young  'Ntoni 
grumbled  that  they  were  all  slaving  for  Uncle  Crocifisso,  and 
went  off  to  the  tavern,  or  chatted  with  Barbara  Zuppidda,  rather 
than  stay  at  home  and  hear  the  women  plan  ways  of  earning 
more  money  when  summer  should  come. 

Christmas  approached.  The  Prowidenza  was  not  repaired; 
the  Malavoglias'  house  alone  was  undecorated  and  dark  at 
the  festival.  Uncle  Crocifisso  stormed.  On  Christmas  Eve  the 
bailiff  arrived  with  the  writ,  from  which  it  appeared  that  Croci- 
fisso had  sold  his  claim  to  Piedipapera — the  fact  being  that  he 
had  used  the  latter  as  a  shield,  to  screen  himself  from  public 


GIOVANNI  VERGA  iii 

displeasure.  The  Malavoglia,  greatly  alarmed,  finally  had  re- 
course to  a  lawyer,  who  told  them  to  do  nothing,  and  wear  the 
creditor  out  with  the  expense  of  sending  the  bailiff  every  day, 
if  he  liked;  their  house  could  not  be  touched,  as  it  was  Maruzza's 
dowry,  and  the  shipwright  should  be  made  to  claim  the  bark. 
But  Don  Silvestro,  the  communal  secretary,  tried  to  get  Maruzza 
to  sign  away  her  dower  rights. 

Just  at  this  juncture  Luca  drew  a  low  number  and  had  to 
join  the  navy.  He  would  not  let  them  see  him  off,  and  instead 
of  demanding  money  from  them  he  sent  money  home.  So  he 
was  not  among  the  throng  which  saw  the  Provvidenza  launched 
again,  looking  very  spick  and  span.  Padron  'Ntoni  said  that 
if  they  could  manage  to  get  on  until  the  summer  the  bark  would 
set  them  on  their  feet  again,  and  enable  them  to  pay  their  debt. 
But  Easter  was  now  near  at  hand,  and  not  more  than  half  the 
money  had  been  collected.  Padron  'Ntoni's  'Ntoni  (as  the 
young  man  was  called)  proposed  marriage  to  Barbara  Zuppidda, 
a  coquettish  girl,  with  a  shrew  of  a  mother;  but  his  grandfather 
told  him  that  Mena  must  be  married  first.  Whereupon  the 
young  man  cursed  his  fate  and  envied  the  lot  of  his  brother  Luca. 

With  the  prospect  of  paying  the  debt  in  the  summer,  Padron 
'Ntoni  managed  to  arrange  the  match  for  Mena  with  Padron 
Cipolla's  son  Brasi,  as  the  house  would  be  her  dowry,  and  ob- 
tained a  delay  as  to  the  debt.  Hearing  this,  Alfio  Mosca  de- 
clared his  hopeless  love  for  Mena,  who  could  not  reply,  and 
went  off  to  fever-stricken  Bicocca  with  his  ass  and  cart  and  all 
his  effects.  Piedipapera  and  Crocifisso,  after  consultation,  re- 
fused to  accept  part  payment  from  'Ntoni,  demanding  the  whole; 
and  'Ntoni  pleaded  for  delay  until  St.  John's  Day.  But  a  fresh 
misfortune  descended  upon  the  unlucky  Malavoglia.  During 
the  betrothal  festival  news  came  that  the  warship  on  which  Luca 
was  serving  had  been  sunk  in  battle  with  the  enemy,  and  all  on 
board  had  perished.  This  mourning  postponed  the  wedding. 
'Ntoni  told  Barbara  that  when  Mena  was  married  his  grand- 
father would  let  them  have  the  attic  room.  But  Barbara  re- 
plied that  she  was  not  used  to  occupy  the  attic ;  and  her  mother 
determined  to  wait  until  the  affair  of  the  lupines  was  settled, 
and  one  could  tell  to  whom  the  house  belonged. 

Nearly  a  year  elapsed;  Padron  'Ntoni  decided  at  last  that 


112  THE  MALAVOGLIA 

the  house  must  go,  and  Maruzza  signed  the  deed.  But  they 
transported  their  chattels  by  night,  out  of  very  shame,  to  a 
wretched  hovel  which  they  hired  from  the  butcher.  Thence- 
forth the  Malavoglia  dared  not  show  themselves  on  the  streets, 
or  in  church,  and  went  to  mass  in  Aci  Castello.  Nothing  more 
was  said  about  Mena's  marriage,  and  the  girl  quietly  replaced 
the  dagger  in  her  hair.  If  the  former  fiancij  Brasi,  caught  sight 
of  her  in  the  distance,  on  the  rare  occasions  when  she  ventured 
forth,  he  ran  to  hide  behind  a  wall  or  a  tree.  No  one  was  faith- 
ful to  them  in  their  adversity  but  Cousin  Anna  and  brave  young 
Nunziata  (deserted  by  her  father,  and  left  with  the  younger 
children  to  support),  who  were  too  busy  with  their  broods  to  come 
often.  When  Barbara's  mother  suggested  to  young  'Ntoni  that 
he  should  look  out  for  himeslf,  and  'Ntoni  refused  to  abandon 
his  family,  and  leave  his  grandfather  helpless  to  manage  the 
bark  and  feed  the  little  ones.  Mother  Zuppidda  bade  him  be- 
gone; she  had  no  intention  of  marrying  her  Barbara  to  a  man 
who  would  bring  five  or  six  people  on  the  girPs  shoulders  to  sup- 
port. Soon  matters  reached  a  point  where  the  two  mothers 
no  longer  spoke  to  each  other  and  turned  their  backs  if  they 
met  in  church. 

'Ntoni  felt  that  the  world  was  hard  and  unjust.  He  was 
tired  of  working  from  morning  till  night  and  never  getting  ahead ; 
so  he  preferred  to  do  nothing  at  all,  and  to  lie  in  bed,  especially 
as  there  was  no  keen  military  doctor,  as  there  had  been  during 
his  service,  to  detect  feigned  illness.  He  took  to  lounging  about 
the  town,  sitting  by  the  hour  on  the  church  steps  on  Sunday 
and  watching  the  passers-by,  too  much  bored  even  to  recall  the 
things  he  had  seen  and  envied  during  his  military  service,  but 
envious  of  all  easy  vocations.  But  on  all  other  days  he  and 
Alessi  went  out  with  their  grandfather  in  the  Provvidenza,  and 
took  great  risks  for  a  few  fish,  especially  as  the  bark  was  not  too 
sound  under  its  new  coat  of  tar.  One  day,  while  they  were  thus 
risking  their  lives,  they  came  near  losing  them  in  a  gale.  Pa- 
dron  'Ntoni  was  knocked  senseless  with  a  wound  in  the  head, 
and  'Ntoni  and  Alessi  were  saved  with  difficulty  by  Don  Michele 
and  his  fellow  coast-guards.  The  bark  was  saved,  but  needed 
many  repairs;  and  Padron  'Ntoni,  after  being  at  death's  door, 
had  a  long  and  expensive  illness.     While  waiting  for  the  Prov- 


GIOVANNI  VERGA  113 

videnza  to  be  repaired,  'Ntoni  junior  wandered  aimlessly  and 
frequented  the  tavern.  The  fickle,  gold-laced  coast-guard,  Don 
Michele,  had  a  chat  every  evening  with  Barbara.  Santuzza,  the 
landlady,  turned  out  her  lover  and  made  the  vicar  repeat  to 
Barbara's  mother  what  she  had  told  him  of  their  relations  in 
confession,  then  took  'Ntoni  in  his  place,  and  saved  up  for  him 
the  dainty  morsels,  and  the  wine  her  customers  left  in  their 
glasses.  'Ntoni  grew  fat,  but  was  useless  to  his  family.  San- 
tuzza, on  the  other  hand,  bought  fresh  eggs,  olives,  and  other 
articles  from  Maruzza  and  Mena,  so  that  they  were  able  to  pay 
the  shipwright  for  repairing  the  Provvidenza  and  lay  in  a  supply 
of  casks  and  salt;  and  they  awaited  the  time  to  catch  and  salt 
the  anchovies  to  buy  back  their  house  and  marry  off  the  patient 
Mena.  In  fact,  the  catch  of  anchovies  was  magnificent  that 
year,  and  meant  wealth  for  all  the  countryside.  The  Malavog- 
lia  salted  a  vast  quantity  and  refused  offers  to  sell,  meaning  to 
get  better  prices  in  the  autunm.  Hope  dawned  again  in  their 
tortured  breasts. 

But  cholera  appeared  at  Catania  that  summer,  and  the  deal- 
ers would  not  buy  the  salted  fish,  saying  money  was  scarce, 
though  Providence  had  sent  to  Trezza  great  numbers  of  summer 
visitors,  who  spent  much  money.  The  Malavoglia  had  not 
counted  upon  having  the  fish  left  on  their  hands;  and  Maruzza 
began  to  carry  eggs  and  fresh  bread  to  the  strangers'  houses, 
taking  great  care  to  walk  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  far  away  from 
the  walls,  and  to  touch  nothing  and  nobody  of  whom  she  was 
not  sure.  But  one  day,  utterly  worn  out,  she  ventured  to  sit 
down  a  few  minutes  on  a  rough  seat  under  a  wild  fig-tree,  too 
weary  to  notice  what  the  last  traveler  had  left  on  it;  and  after 
suffering  all  night,  tended  only  by  the  family,  she  died  the  next 
day  of  cholera.  To  'Ntoni,  as  the  eldest,  she  had  confided  his 
brothers  and  sisters.  Naturally,  people  left  them  alone  in  their 
sorrow,  and  if  they  had  not  fortunately  happened  to  have  plenty 
of  provisions  in  the  house  they  would  have  starved.  Everybody 
fled  like  rabbits,  or  shut  themselves  up  in  their  houses.  Only 
the  Malavoglia,  who  had  nothing  more  to  lose,  were  visible, 
seated  on  their  threshold,  with  their  chins  propped  on  their 
hands,  Don  Michele  was  master  of  the  street  now,  and,  in 
order  not  to  waste  his  stroll,  took  to  looking  at  them,  noticing 
A.D.,  VOL.  xvn. — 8 


114  THE   MALAVOGLIA 

— ^unhappily  for  them — that  Lia  was  becoming  a  beautiful  girl. 
Poor  Mena  felt  as  if  she  had  suddenly  grown  twenty  years  older. 
She  tried  to  keep  Lia  under  her  wing,  as  her  mother  had  kept 
her.  She  sometimes  wondered  whether  Alfio  Mosca  had  died 
of  the  cholera,  and  where  he  was.  The  summer  visitors  had 
fled  before  the  cholera,  like  leaves  before  the  winter  winds,  and 
she  could  not  sell  eggs,  and  no  one  would  buy  the  fish.  All  that 
Padron  'Ntoni  could  think  of  was  that  Maruzza  had  died  out  of 
her  own  house,  that  House  of  the  Medlar-tree  which  he  sadly 
visited  from  time  to  time.  He  was  forced  to  pay  expenses  from 
the  money  they  had  put  together  to  buy  back  that  house.  When 
the  cholera  was  over  only  half  of  the  hoard  was  left.  Then 
'Ntoni  declared  that  he  would  go  away  and  try  his  fortune,  as 
he  had  long  wished  to  do;  he  could  no  longer  remain  where  his 
mother  had  died  in  such  misery;  he  must  try  to  remove  their 
wretchedness  with  one  stroke. 

His  grandfather  reminded  him  that  his  mother  had  left  Mena 
in  his  care;  but  he  insisted  upon  going.  Thus  left  with  no  one 
to  help  him  on  the  bark  but  Alessi,  Padron  'Ntoni  was  obliged 
to  hire  hands.  Unhappily,  the  fishing  was  bad  and  often  the 
earnings  did  not  sufi&ce  for  the  wages  of  these  men.  Then  Pa- 
dron 'Ntoni  held  council  with  Mena  (who  had  good  judgment, 
as  her  mother  had  had  before  her)  concerning  what  it  was  best 
to  do.  They  decided  to  sell  the  Provvidenza,  lest  all  the  money 
saved  up  for  the  old  house  should  be  spent,  especially  as  the 
boat  was  old  and  required  constant  repairs.  When  'Ntoni 
should  return  and  skies  should  be  brighter,  they  would  buy  a 
new  boat.  It  was  a  bad  time  to  sell;  because  of  the  bad  season 
many  others  would  have  liked  to  sell  their  boats,  which  were  far 
newer.  Piedipapera  tried  to  persuade  Uncle  Crocifisso,  the 
only  man  who  had  money,  to  purchase  the  bargain.  So  the 
bargain  was  concluded  for  a  mere  song;  and  Padron  'Ntoni  felt 
as  if  his  very  vitals  were  being  torn  out.  Then  Piedipapera  per- 
suaded Padron  Cipolla  that  it  would  be  not  only  profitable  but 
an  act  of  charity  to  hire  Padron  'Ntoni  and  Alessi;  which  he 
consented  to  do  if  they  would  come  and  ask  it. 

Don  Michele  paraded  up  and  down  the  street  ten  times  a 
day,  partly  to  show  that  he  was  not  afraid  of  Barbara's  mother, 
who  had  threatened  to  gouge  his  eyes  out  with  her  distaff;  and 


GIOVANNI  VERGA  115 

when  he  reached  the  Malavoglia  house  he  hahed  and  peered  in 
to  see  the  pretty  maidens  who  were  growing  up  there.  The 
family  had  begun  to  save  money  again,  now  that  Alessi  was 
earning  good  wages;  and  they  hoped  great  things  from  'Ntoni. 
But  one  night  'Ntoni  returned,  ashamed  to  show  himself  without 
shoes,  and  with  clothing  so  ragged  that  he  would  have  had  no 
place  to  keep  money  if  he  had  made  any.  His  family  received 
him  warmly,  but  everyone  else  ridiculed  him;  and  he  took  to 
making  revolutionary  speeches,  like  the  apothecary.  His  grand- 
father chided  him  gently,  tried  to  inspire  him  to  work  for  the 
old  house  and  a  new  boat.  'Ntoni  flatly  refused,  saying  that 
it  was  useless:  there  would  be  another  bad  season,  or  cholera, 
or  some  misfortune;  and  where  he  had  been  there  were  people 
who  rode  about  in  carriages  all  day  long,  so  they  did.  He  fre- 
quented the' tavern,  returned  home  drunk,  and  his  grandfather 
tried  to  hide  the  fact  from  his  sisters:  no  Malavoglia  had  ever 
done  that  before.  He  consorted  with  the  good-for-nothings 
Rocco  Spatu  and  Vanni  Pizzuto. 

Mena  had  her  hands  full  with  the  work,  and  could  not  con- 
trol Lia,  who  was  as  vain  as  'Ntoni,  and  insisted  on  standing  on 
the  door-sill,  to  hear  Don  Michele  tell  her  how  beautiful  she  was 
in  her  rose-patterned  kerchief.  Don  Michele  flattered  Lia  when 
he  found  her  alone,  but  frightened  her  into  fleeing  indoors  at 
the  sight  of  him  by  offering  her  a  silk  kerchief,  talking  to  her 
about  the  cloth  and  silk  gowns  she  was  worthy  to  wear,  and 
about  marriage.  One  day  he  entered  the  house,  to  the  surprise 
of  Mena  and  Lia,  and  warned  them  that  'Ntoni  was  engaged  in 
dangerous  business  (they  understood  that  he  meant  smuggling), 
to  which  he  pretended  to  be  blind,  as  he  was  their  friend.  The 
authorities  had  their  eye  on  his  evil  companions,  and  'Ntoni 
was  to  distrust  the  old  fox  Piedipapera,  who  was  quite  capable 
of  betraying  them  all,  because  the  informer  receives  a  share  of 
the  forfeit.  Mena  spared  her  grandfather  this  news,  but  warned 
her  brother,  who  swore  there  was  no  truth  in  the  suspicion.  But 
before  long  'Ntoni  began  to  appear  publicly  with  his  evil  com- 
panions; for  he  had  lost  Santuzza's  favor.  Santuzza  had  liked 
him  (after  she  had  dropped  Don  Michele)  because  he  kept  the 
unruly  customers  in  order  with  his  fists,  and  had  supported  him. 
But  soon  he  became  too  obstreperous.    The  customers  liked  to 


ii6  THE  MALAVOGLIA 

drink  in  peace,  and  disliked  the  wine  which  Santuzza  provided 
(she  always  watered  it),  now  that  Don  Michele  was  no  longer 
on  hand  to  connive  at  the  smuggling  of  the  favorite  sort  by  Mas- 
saro  Filippo;  and  she  saw  that  her  business  would  be  ruined  un- 
less she  could  dismiss  'Ntoni  and  lure  back  Don  Michele.  'Ntoni 
did  not  acquiesce  willingly,  and  gave  Don  Michele  a  sound 
drubbing,  promising  that  he  would  "give  him  the  rest''  the  first 
time  he  met  him.  That  meeting  occurred  before  long  on  a 
stormy  night  on  the  shore,  where  'Ntoni  and  his  comrades  were 
landing  a  smuggled  cargo.  Don  Michele  (who  had  continued 
to  pay  court  to  Lia,  and  had  at  last  persuaded  her  to  accept  a  silk 
kerchief)  had  insisted  on  being  admitted  to  the  Malavoglia 
house  that  night,  and  had  told  Lia  she  must  prevent  her  brother 
going  to  the  shore.  But  'Ntoni  had  gone  to  the  shore  by  an 
unusual  road,  ashamed  even  to  pass  home,  where  he  knew  his 
sisters  would  be  waiting  up  for  him,  and  so  had  given  Lia  no 
opportunity  to  warn  him.  He  had  already  been  told  by  his  com- 
panions that  Don  Michele  had  been  in  his  house  that  evening 
and  that  his  sister  was  expecting  Don  Michele,  not  himself.  In 
the  fight  with  the  coast-guards,  'Ntoni  stabbed  Don  Michele 
in  the  breast  and  was  arrested  with  his  comrades.  At  the  trial 
an  attempt  was  made  to  prove  that  he  had  not  been  smuggling, 
but  had  attacked  Don  Michele  on  account  of  his  sister.  When 
poor  Padron  'Ntoni  heard  the  lawyer  say  this  there  was  a  ringing 
in  his  ears,  and  he  swooned  away  in  the  courtroom. 

'Ntoni  was  condemned  to  five  years  in  fetters.  That  eve- 
ning, when  old  'Ntoni  was  brought  home  on  a  cart,  and  Mena 
went  out  to  meet  him,  Lia  slipped  from  the  courtyard  into  the 
street,  went  away,  and  never  was  seen  there  again.  People  said 
she  had  gone  to  be  with  Don  Michele.  Old  'Ntoni  was  com- 
pletely broken,  and  everyone  said  that  Mena  and  Alessi  ought 
to  send  him  to  the  poorhouse  as  he  was  nothing  but  a  burden. 
But  they  persisted  in  caring  tenderly  for  him,  until  at  last  he 
made  Nimziata  and  Alfio  Mosca  (who  had  returned  with  his 
mule  and  cart)  take  him  to  the  public  hospital  while  his  grand- 
children were  absent.  There  he  remained  until  he  died.  Hard- 
working, thrifty  Alessi  managed  to  save  up  enough  money  to 
marry  brave  Nunziata,  who  had  brought  up  her  little  brothers 
and  sisters,  and  to  buy  back  the  House  of  the  Medlar-tree,  which 


GIOVANNI  VERGA  117 

Uncle  Crocifisso  was  only  too  glad  to  sell  at  a  reasonable  price, 
since  no  one  would  buy  it  any  more  than  if  a  curse  had  lain 
upon  it. 

Mena  installed  herself  in  the  attic,  refusing  to  marry  Alfio 
Mosca,  alleging  that  she  was  too  old,  being  now  twenty-six;  but 
at  last  she  confessed  that  should  she  think  of  marriage  people 
would  begin  to  talk  about  her  sister  Lia.  Only  Alfio  knew  where 
Lia  was,  and  he  told  Nunziata  that  she  had  followed  her  brother 
'Ntoni;  he  had  seen  her  in  the  town  where  'Ntoni  was  in  prison, 
but  had  not  spoken  to  her,  as  he  saw  that  she  did  not  wish  to 
be  recognized. 

Late  one  night  'Ntoni  came  to  the  House  of  the  Medlar-tree, 
where  Alessi  was  restoring  the  Malavoglia  family  to  public  re- 
spect and  Mena  was  devoting  her  life  to  the  children.  He  was 
so  changed* as  to  be  hardly  recognizable.  After  he  had  satisfied 
his  hunger  and  rested  a  little  he  rose  to  go.  He  had  come  to  see 
them  all  once  more,  he  said,  but  he  could  not  stay  at  Trezza;  he 
would  seek  his  bread  where  he  could,  and  no  one  should  ever 
know  who  he  was.  He  inquired  where  Lia  was,  and  whether 
she  were  dead;  and  they  saw  that  he  knew  nothing  of  her.  And 
so,  refusing  Alessi's  invitation  to  stay,  he  disappeared  out  of 
their  lives. 


JULES   VERNE 

(France,  1 828-1 905) 

TWENTY  THOUSAND  LEAGUES  UNDER  THE   SEA 

(1873) 

Jules  Verne  is  generally  known  for  romances  in  which  the  most  extravagant 
flights  of  fancy  are  blended  with  psuedo-scientific  information.  Although  a 
member  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  and  an  immensely  popular  writer,  some  of 
whose  vorks  had  been  crowned  by  the  French  Academy,  Verne  died,  when  nearly 
eighty  years  old,  with  the  regret  that  his  merit  had  not  been  fully  recognized  by 
his  own  countrymen.  Some  of  his  most  imaginative  flights  are  to-day  calmly 
accepted  realities.  Submarine  boats  are  now  regarded  as  part  of  a  nation's 
naval  equipment,  and  a  prevailing  belief  is  that  the  time  is  not  far  distant  when 
balloons,  or  air-ships,  which  have  already  reached  the  dirigible  stage,  will  be  as 
much  a  matter-of-fact  conveyance  as  automobiles. 

[he  year  1866  was  signalized  by  a  peculiar  marine 
phenomenon  which  greatly  disturbed  the  seafar- 
ing world.  Several  craft  had  been  met  by  a  long, 
spindle-shaped  thing  in  the  sea,  infinitely  larger 
and  more  rapid  than  a  whale,  which  at  times 
was  phosphorescent.  It  was  an  undeniable  fact. 
The  Moravian,  of  the  Montreal  Ocean  Company, 
and  the  Scotia,  of  the  Cunard  Line,  had  been 
struck  by  this  monster,  and  marine  losses  of  two 
hundred  sailing  craft,  for  which  no  reason  could  be  assigned, 
were  attributed  to  this  unknown  terror  of  the  seas.  Its  exter- 
mination was  demanded  loudly  by  the  public. 

I,  Pierre  Arronax,  Professor  in  the  Museum  of  Paris,  be- 
lieved the  thing  to  be  a  gigantic  narwhal,  with  a  tusk  as  hard  as 
steel.  The  United  States  fitted  out  a  swift  frigate,  the  Abraham 
Lincoln,  to  run  down  and  destroy  this  portentous  monster,  and 
I  was  invited  to  represent  France  in  this  cruise.  I  accepted, 
taking  my  man,  Conseil,  a  sturdy  Flemish  companion  of  my 
scientific  expeditions  for  ten  years.     We  sailed  from  Brooklyn 

118 


JULES  VERNE  119 

to  the  Pacific.  Ned  Land,  the  prince  of  harpooners,  a  strong, 
violent  Canadian  of  forty,  was  one  of  the  crew.  He  was  eager 
to  flesh  his  harpoon  in  this  redoubtable  cetacean  which  terrified 
the  marine  world. 

Suffice  it  to  say  that  we  encountered  the  monster  in  the  Pa- 
cific, pursued  it,  and,  when  within  twenty  feet,  were  deluged 
with  water.  Land,  Conseil,  and  myself  were  thrown  into  the 
ocean.  We  swam  for  hours,  until  I  fainted.  When  I  recovered 
my  senses  I  found  that  all  three  of  us  were  on  the  back  of  a  sort 
of  submarine  boat.  Soon  after  I  came  to  my  senses  an  iron  plate 
was  moved,  eight  masked  men  appeared  and  drew  us  within  the 
formidable  machine.  A  door  banged  on  us  and  for  half  an  hour 
we  were  left  in  utter  darkness.  Then  a  brilliant  electric  light 
flooded  the  cabin,  which  was  about  twenty  feet  by  ten,  and  two 
men  entered.*  One  was  a  tall,  pale,  dark-eyed  man,  the  most  ad- 
mirable specimen  of  manhood  I  ever  have  seen.  We  addressed 
them  in  French,  German,  English,  and  Latin,  but  they  did  not 
seem  to  understand.  Their  own  language  was  unintelligible 
to  us.  However,  we  were  clothed  and  fed.  I  noticed  that  every 
table  utensil  was  marked :  Mohilis  in  mohili,  N.  After  that  we 
slept  the  sleep  of  exhaustion. 

The  next  day  Captain  Nemo  (as  I  learned  the  tall  man  was 
called)  told  me  things  that  made  me  regard  him  as  CEdipus  re- 
garded the  Sphinx.  "I  have  been  considering  your  case,"  he 
said  in  French,  "  and  did  not  choose  to  speak  until  I  had  weighed 
it  well.  You  have  pursued  me  to  destroy  me.  I  have  done 
with  society,  for  reasons  of  my  own.  I  have  decided.  I  give 
you  choice  of  life  or  death.  If  you  grant  me  a  passive  obedience, 
and  submit  to  my  consigning  you  to  your  cabins  for  some  hours 
or  days,  as  occasion  calls,  you  are  safe.  You  have  been  cast  by 
fate  on  my  vessel.  Here  you  remain.  You,  Monsieur  Arronax, 
have  least  cause  to  complain,  for  you  have  written  on  the  life  in 
the  sea,  and  will  benefit  most  when  I  shall  show  you  its  marvels. 
I  love  it.     It  does  not  belong  to  despots." 

Evidently  we  were  in  no  condition  to  do  aught  but  submit. 
Captain  Nemo  showed  me  his  wondrous  craft.  Besides  a  din- 
ing-room, there  was  a  large  library  of  twelve  thousand  volumes, 
containing  works  on  every  subject  except  political  economy. 
There  was  a  drawing-room,  thirty  feet  long,  eighteen  wide, 


I20  TWENTY  THOUSAND  LEAGUES 

and  fifteen  high.  Thirty  chej-d^ ceuvres  of  the  greatest  painters 
adorned  its  walls,  and  there  were  also  some  superb  marble  and 
bronze  copies  of  classic  antiques.  The  best  compositions  of 
the  great  musicians  were  scattered  over  a  large  model  piano- 
organ.  Under  glass  cases  were  the  most  precious  specimens  of 
sea  creatures  that  a  naturalist  could  wish  to  see.  Pearls  of  enor- 
mous value,  some  as  large  as  pigeon's  eggs,  were  in  a  cabinet. 
The  collection  was  worth  millions.  Captain  Nemo  casually 
informed  me  that  he  had  gathered  all  these  specimens  himself, 
having  rifled  every  sea  of  the  earth  for  them. 

He  then  showed  me  an  elegant  room  with  the  most  luxurious 
appointments,  which  he  assigned  to  my  use.  His  own  contained 
nothing  but  the  barest  necessities.  No  monk's  cell  could  have 
been  more  severe  and  plain.  But  in  it  were  all  the  instruments 
and  devices  that  regulated  his  marvelous  craft:  thermometer, 
barometer,  hygrometer,  storm-glass,  sextants,  chronometers,  and 
glasses  for  day  and  night.  A  manometer,  which  was  connected 
with  the  sea,  gave  its  depth  and  pressure.  There  were  electrical 
instruments,  various  and  novel,  which  supplied  the  life  of  the 
Nautilus,  and  the  chloride  of  sodium  which  he  obtained  from 
the  sea-water  was  the  main  factor  in  his  electrical  supply.  To 
procure  fresh  air  the  Nautilus  ascended  to  the  surface.  The 
engine-room  was  sixty-five  feet  long;  one  part  contained  the  ma- 
terials for  producing  electricity,  the  other  the  machinery  that 
applied  it  to  the  screw.  He  could  get  a  speed  of  fifty  miles  an 
hour.  Captain  Nemo  also  explained  how  the  Nautilus  could 
be  made  to  rise  or  sink,  vertically  or  diagonally.  The  steersman 
was  in  a  box  raised  above  the  hull  and  furnished  with  lenses, 
the  glass  of  which  was  ten  inches  thick.  A  powerful  electric  re- 
flector behind  the  steersman's  cage  illumined  the  sea  for  half  a 
mile  in  front.  Captain  Nemo  had  designed  and  constructed  the 
Nautilus  on  a  desert  island,  its  parts  having  been  made  in  differ- 
ent cities.  Its  tonnage  was  fifteen  hundred,  and,  with  the  fit- 
tings, collections,  and  art  treasures,  it  represented  an  expenditure 
of  two  million  dollars. 

"You  are  rich.  Captain  Nemo,"  I  remarked  dryly. 

"Rich?  I  could  pay  the  national  debt  of  France  and  not 
miss  the  sum,"  he  returned,  with  perfect  simplicity. 

After  this  we  set  out  on  our  enforced  voyage,  during  which  I 


JULES  VERNE  121 

was  to  sec  the  innermost  mysteries  of  the  ocean  as  no  man  could 
have  thought  possible.  We  had  sunk  about  fifty  yards.  Sud- 
denly all  was  darkness  in  the  saloon;  then  light  broke  out  on 
each  side  through  two  oblong  openings.  The  liquid  mass  was 
illumined  by  the  electric  gleam.  Iron  plates  had  been  rolled 
back,  and  crystal  plates  enabled  us  to  see  the  water  for  a  mile 
all  round  the  Nautilus.  It  was  as  if  the  glass  were  the  side  of 
an  immense  aquarium.  A  thronging  parti-colored  aquatic 
army  escorted  us,  attracted  by  the  light.  I  was  in  an  ecstasy  of 
wonder  and  delight. 

None  of  the  ship's  crew  ever  appeared,  and  Captain  Nemo 
himself  was  sometimes  invisible  to  us  for  days.  The  voyage 
took  us  to  the  Torres  Strait,  the  Papuan  coast,  through  the  Red 
Sea,  under  the  Isthmus  of  Suez,  through  a  subterranean  strait, 
to  the  Island  of  Santorin,  the  Cretan  Archipelago,  to  the  South 
Pole,  which  Captain  Nemo  discovered  and  on  whose  sterile 
waste  he  reared  his  black  flag  with  the  white  N  upon  it; 
thence  through  the  Gulf  Stream.  I  cannot  begin  to  speak 
of  the  wonders  of  the  deep,  strange,  and  superb  specimens 
floating  before  my  vision  which  had  greeted  no  other  natural- 
ist's eye. 

Not  all  the  time  did  we  remain  in  the  Nautilus  itself.  It 
was  one  of  our  early  surprises  to  be  asked  by  Captain  Nemo  to 
join  a  hunting-party  on  the  bed  of  the  sea,  in  the  marine  forest 
of  the  Island  of  Crespo,  a  little  rock  in  the  midst  of  the  North 
Pacific,  discovered  by  Captain  Crespo  in  1801.  We  were  en- 
couraged to  make  a  hearty  breakfast,  as  it  would  be  a  long 
jaunt.  All  the  food  we  ate  was  taken  from  the  sea,  and  even 
a  fermented  liquor,  which  we  mingled  with  water,  was  extracted 
from  seaweed  by  the  Kamchatkan  method.  We  were  pro- 
tected by  stout  diving  apparatus  and  carried  a  reservoir  of 
stored  air  with  tubes  for  breathing.  We  even  had  powerful  air 
guns  and  bullets  which  were  practically  Leyden  jars,  which 
discharged  the  electrictiy  when  broken  by  striking  an  animal, 
with  disastrous  results  to  the  animal. 

The  peculiarity  of  this  forest  under  the  sea  was  that  every 
branch,  even  the  slightest,  ascended  perpendicularly.  The 
fauna  and  the  flora  were  singularly  allied  in  that  submarine 
world.     We  bagged  a  superb  sea  otter,  the  only  exclusively 


122  TWENTY  THOUSAND  LEAGUES 

marine  quadruped.  It  was  five  feet  long,  and  its  skin  was 
worth  four  or  five  hundred  dollars. 

One  day  Captain  Nemo  showed  me  the  place  where  sank  the 
ship  made  by  the  French  explorers  under  Commander  La 
Perouse,  in  1785,  at  the  Island  of  Vanikoro,  after  they  had  lost 
La  Bousolle  and  the  Astrolabe.  He  had  found  a  tin  box  con- 
taining the  instructions  to  La  Perouse. 

^*A  fine  death  for  a  sailor,"  said  Captain  Nemo.  ^'A  coral 
tomb  makes  a  quiet  grave,  and  I  hope  it  will  be  mine." 

The  days  passed  rapidly  and  I  took  no  account  of  them,  in- 
cessantly charmed  by  new  marvels.  Captain  Nemo  was  always 
the  same  calm,  inscrutable  being,  his  secret  history  locked  in 
his  breast.  But  one  day,  after  looking  through  the  glass  at  a 
point  designated  by  the  lieutenant,  he  was  transfigured  with 
violent  agitation.  I  and  my  companions  were  promptly  im- 
prisoned, as  on  our  first  admission  to  the  Nautilus.  Our  dinner 
was  served  us  as  usual,  but  we  all  fell  asleep  after  it.  I  awoke 
the  next  morning  to  find  that  freedom  was  restored  to  us.  But 
Captain  Nemo  took  me  to  a  wounded  man,  an  Anglo-Saxon.  I 
told  him  the  man  could  not  live  two  hours  with  his  shattered 
skull.  Captain  Nemo's  hands  contracted  and  tears  glistened 
in  his  dark  eyes. 

That  night  I  thought  I  heard  sounds  like  a  funeral  hymn. 
The  next  day  Captain  Nejno  took  me  to  a  submarine  forest  of 
coral,  which  I  saw,  from  a  coral  cross  and  slight,  regular  ex- 
crescences, was  a  cemetery.  There  they  buried  the  man  I  had 
seen  yesterday — z.  solemn  sight  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

Then  we  wandered  on.  Ned  Land,  who  had  not  any  rea- 
sons for  being  interested,  longed  to  escape,  and  was  ready  to  do 
so  at  the  first  opportunity;  but  no  opportunity  offered. 

We  had  coursed  through  the  Mediterranean;  then  sped 
swiftly  to  Cape  Horn;  sailed  up  the  eastern  coast  of  South 
America,  and  underwent  a  fearful  storm  off  the  New  England 
coast,  which  it  suited  Captain  Nemo's  caprice  to  battle  with  on 
the  surface,  instead  of  seeking  repose  beneath  the  waves.  How- 
ever, the  Nautilus  confirmed  the  words  of  a  clever  engineer: 
"There  is  no  well-constructed  hull  that  cannot  defy  the  sea." 
As  the  Nautilus^  pitching  fearfully,  raised  its  steel  spur  in  the 
air,  it  seemed  to  act  as  a  conductor,  and  I  saw  long  sparks  burst 


JULES  VERNE  123 

from  it.  Finally,  we  retreated  twenty-five  fathoms  into  the 
deep  and  found  perfect  quiet,  absolute  peace! 

By  the  seventeenth  of  May  we  were  about  five  hundred  miles 
from  Heart's  Content.  There  I  saw,  at  a  depth  of  more  than 
fifteen  hundred  fathoms,  the  electric  cable  lying  at  the  bottom 
of  the  ocean.  It  recalled  the  trouble,  failure,  and  final  success 
which  attended  this  magnificent  undertaking.  The  cable,  cov- 
ered with  the  remains  of  shells,  bristling  with  foraminiferae, 
was  incrusted  with  a  strong  coating  which  served  as  a  protection 
against  all  boring  mollusks. 

After  showing  the  restless  Ned  Land  a  glimpse  of  American 
shores.  Captain  Nemo  coursed  to  Ireland,  and  then  went  south- 
ward. On  the  thirtieth  of  May  the  submarine  boat  passed  in 
sight  of  Land's  End,  between  the  extreme  point  of  England  and 
the  Scilly  Isles.'  The  entire  following  day  it  described  a  series 
of  circles  in  the  water,  as  if  it  were  trying  unsuccessfully  to  locate 
some  particular  spot.  At  noon  Captain  Nemo  himself  came  to 
work  the  ship's  log.  He  had  no  word  for  me  and  was  gloomier 
than  I  ever  had  seen  him. 

The  next  day  was  beautifully  clear,  and  about  eight  miles  to 
the  eastward  a  large  steam  vessel  could  be  discerned.  It  had 
no  flag  and  I  could  not  tell  its  nationality.  Captain  Nemo  took 
the  sextant.  Suddenly  he  said:  ''It  is  here!"  He  went  below. 
Soon  the  Nautilus  sank  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  The  lights 
were  extinguished,  and  the  panels  opened.  I  saw  at  the  star- 
board what  must  have  been  a  sunken  vessel  which  had  lain  there 
long,  for  it  was  incrusted  with  shells.  It  had  no  masts.  I  was 
wondering  what  it  could  be  and  why  the  Nautilus  should  visit 
its  tomb,  when  I  heard  Captain  Nemo's  voice,  speaking  slowly: 
"That  was  once  the  Marseillais,  launched  in  1762.  It  carried 
seventy-four  guns  and  fought  gallantly  against  the  Preston,  then 
at  the  siege  of  Granada,  then  in  Chesapeake  Bay.  In  1794  the 
French  Republic  changed  its  name.  That  same  year  it  joined 
the  squadron  of  Villaret  Joyeuse,  at  Brest,  to  escort  a  cargo 
of  corn  coming  from  America.  On  the  eleventh  and  twelfth 
Prairal  of  the  second  year  the  squadron  fell  in  with  an  English 
vessel.  Sir,  to-day  is  the  thirteenth  Prairal,  the  first  of  June, 
eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-eight.  Seventy-two  years  ago,  day 
for  day,  on  this  very  spot,  after  fighting  heroically,  its  three 


124  TWENTY  THOUSAND  LEAGUES 

masts  shot  away,  the  hold  full  of  water,  and  a  third  of  the  crew 
disabled,  this  vessel  preferred  sinking  with  its  three  hundred  and 
fifty-six  sailors  to  surrendering;  and,  nailing  its  colors  to  the  mast, 
it  sank  beneath  the  waves,  to  the  cry  of  '  Long  live  the  Repub- 
lic!'" 

"The  Avengerr  I  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  the  Avenger.  A  good  name!"  muttered  Captain 
Nemo,  crossing  his  arms.  The  way  he  said  "the  Avenger! ^^ 
impressed  me  deeply.  No  common  misanthropy  had  shut  up 
Captain  Nemo  and  his  crew  in  the  Nautilus. 

We  were  already  rising  to  the  surface  and  the  dead  ship 
faded  from  our  eyes.  I  heard  a  low  boom  after  we  came  to  the 
top.  The  other  ship  was  steaming  toward  us.  Soon  Ned  Land 
said  she  was  a  two-decker  ram.  She  hoisted  no  flag  at  her 
mizzenmast.  If  Captain  Nemo  remained  there,  and  she  came 
near  enough,  there  was  a  chance  that  Ned  Land,  Conseil,  and 
myself  might  escape  to  her. 

"  I  will  jump  into  the  sea  if  she  comes  within  a  mile  of  us," 
said  Ned  Land,  scowling. 

Another  shot  showed  me  they  were  firing  at  us.  I  suddenly 
reflected  that  since  the  Abraham  Lincoln  had  seen  that  Ned 
Land's  harpoon  had  had  no  effect  on  the  Nautilus  she  had  been 
assumed  to  be  an  engine  of  destruction  which  every  nation 
would  wish  to  destroy.  Had  not  the  Nautilus  attacked  some 
craft  that  first  night  we  were  imprisoned  on  her?  Had  not  the 
man  buried  in  the  coral  cemetery  been  one  of  her  victims  ?  They 
would  not  be  likely  to  show  mercy  to  anybody  upon  her!  The 
shot  rattled  about  us. 

"Let  us  wave  at  them,"  said  Land,  flourishing  his  handker- 
chief.   He  was  instantly  felled  by  an  iron  hand. 

" Fool!"  hissed  Captain  Nemo.  "  Do  you  wish  to  be  pierced 
by  the  spur  of  the  Nautilus  before  it  is  hurled  against  that  ves- 
sel?" He  was  frightfully  pale,  and  roared  at  the  Canadian. 
Then,  turning  to  the  ship,  he  yelled :  "  Ah,  ship  of  an  accursed 
nation,  you  know  who  I  am!  I  do  not  need  to  see  your  colors 
to  know  you.     Look,  and  see  mine!" 

He  unfurled  a  black  flag,  like  the  one  he  had  planted  on  the 
South  Pole  in  taking  possession  of  it.  "Go  below,  you!"  he 
said  to  us  sternly,  as  a  shell  struck  the  Nautilus  and  rebounded 


JULES  VERNE  125 

into  the  sea.  *'You  have  seen  the  attack.  I  shall  sink  that 
ship.  But  not  here !  Your  ruins  shall  not  mingle  with  those  of 
the  AvengerJ' 

We  had  no  choice  but  to  obey.  Shortly  after  this  the  screw 
was  set  in  motion,  and  the  Nautilus  was  beyond  reach  of  the  fire. 
I  remained  below  until  four;  then  mounted  to  the  deck  to  en- 
deavor, if  possible,  to  dissuade  Captain  Nemo  from  more  de- 
struction. He  was  moving  round  the  other  ship  like  a  wild 
beast.     I  had  hardly  uttered  a  word  when  he  silenced  me  fiercely. 

"  I  am  the  Law  and  I  am  the  Judge.  There  is  the  oppressor. 
Through  him  I  have  lost  all  that  I  loved,  cherished,  and  vener- 
ated— country,  wife,  children,  father  and  mother.  I  saw  all 
perish!    All  that  I  hate  is  there!    Not  another  word!" 

I  and  my  companions  resolved  to  attempt  to  fly  when  the 
Nautilus  attacked  the  other.  At  six  the  next  morning  the  ves- 
sel was  not  a  mile  and  a  half  away.  The  Nautilus^  stripped  for 
action,  had  let  the  aggressor  draw  near.  It  was  the  second  day 
of  June! 

Suddenly,  as  we  were  preparing  to  rush  forth  and  make  an 
attempt  to  escape,  I  heard  the  upper  panel  close  sharply.  It 
was  too  late !  The  next  moment  the  hissing  water  running  into 
the  reservoir  announced  our  sinking  beneath  the  water.  We 
stood  speechless.  The  speed  was  accelerated.  The  whole  ship 
trembled.  I  heard  the  shock — then  rattlings  and  scrapings. 
The  Nautilus  had  cut  her  way  through  the  other  vessel  like  a 
needle  through  sail-cloth.  I  groaned,  and  rushed  into  the  saloon. 
Gloomy,  implacable,  mute.  Captain  Nemo  was  looking  through 
the  port  panel.  The  Nautilus  was  following  the  sinking  ship 
to  the  bottom,  not  to  lose  a  particle  of  its  agony.  It  was  a  human 
ant-heap  overtaken  by  the  sea.  The  poor  victims  were  crowding 
the  railings,  clinging  to  the  mast.  Held  by  the  ghastly  fascina- 
tion of  the  spectacle,  I  could  not  avert  my  eyes.  Suddenly  came 
an  explosion!  The  compressed  air  blew  up  her  decks  and  she 
sank  more  rapidly.  Her  topmast,  laden  with  victims,  then  her 
spars,  bending  beneath  the  weight  of  men,  faded  below.  The 
doomed  ship  and  her  drowning  crew  had  sunk  to  their  grave. 

I  turned  to  Captain  Nemo.  He  was  still  looking  like  an 
archangel  of  hate.  Then  he  turned  and  went  to  his  room.  As 
the  door  opened  I  saw  on  the  wall,  beneath  his  heroes,  the  por- 


126  TWENTY  THOUSAND  LEAGUES 

trait  of  a  woman,  still  young,  and  two  little  children.  Captain 
Nemo  looked  at  them,  slowly  stretched  his  arms  toward  them, 
and  sinking  on  his  knees  burst  into  deep  sobs. 

I  felt  a  horror  for  this  man,  who,  whatever  he  had  suffered, 
had  no  right  to  punish  so  fearfully  for  revenge.  Whence  was 
the  Nautilus  flying  now?  The  instruments  showed  a  high 
speed,  and  indicated  the  north.  That  night  we  had  crossed 
two  hundred  leagues  of  the  Atlantic.  Whither?  In  such  un- 
accountable speed  ?  I  calculated  that  this  kept  up  for  fifteen  or 
twenty  days.  I  saw  nothing  of  Captain  Nemo  now,  nor  of  his 
second.  Ned  Land  was  at  the  end  of  his  strength  and  of  his 
patience,  and  Conseil  watched  him,  fearing  he  would  kill 
himself. 

One  morning  Ned  said  to  me:  "We  are  going  to  fly  to-night. 
I  have  taken  the  reckoning — twenty  miles  or  so  to  the  east  there 
is  land.  I  have  got  a  little  food  and  water.  Conseil  and  I  will 
be  near  the  boat  at  ten.  Meet  us  there.  If  we  do  not  escape, 
they  sha'n't  take  me  alive." 

"  I  will  go  with  you.     We  can  die  together." 

I  went  to  the  saloon  to  verify  our  course.  It  was  N.N.E., 
at  a  frightful  speed.  The  hours  were  like  a  nightmare.  At 
last  nine  o'clock  struck.  Half  past  nine.  Another  half-hour  to 
wait! 

At  that  moment  I  heard  the  organ.  It  was  like  the  wail  of 
a  soul  longing  to  break  its  earthly  bonds.  I  listened,  plunged, 
like  Captain  Nemo,  in  that  musical  esctasy  which  was  drawing 
him  to  the  end  of  life. 

Then  I  reflected,  with  horror,  that  he  must  be  in  the  saloon, 
and  that  I  had  to  cross  through  it,  for  it  was  nearly  ten!  But 
whatever  happened  I  must  make  the  attempt. 

I  reached  the  saloon.  It  was  dark,  but  the  music  continued. 
I  had  reached  the  library  door  when  I  heard  him  sigh.  I  knew 
he  had  risen.  His  arms  crossed,  he  glided  like  a  specter,  his 
breast  swelling  with  sobs.  I  heard  him  gasp  out  these  words 
(the  last  I  was  ever  to  hear  from  him) : 

"Almighty  God!    Enough!    Enough!" 

I  rushed  in  desperation  to  the  stairway  to  find  the  boat.  My 
companions  were  there.     "Let  us  go!    At  once!    Hurry!" 

Suddenly  there  were  voices,  loud,  agitated  tones  within! 


JULES  VERNE  127 

Were  we  discovered?    Ned  Land  slipped  a  dagger  into  my 
hand.     ^'Yes,"  I  muttered;  "we  can  die,  anyhow." 

But  a  dreadful  word  reached  our  ears.  It  was  not  we  who 
were  claiming  the  crew's  attention.     It  was  their  own  danger. 

"The  maelstrom!    The  maelstrom!"  I  cried. 

Was  it  to  this  that  the  Nautilus  had  been  driven  at  un- 
flagging speed?  We  heard  a  roaring,  and  we  could  feel  our- 
selves borne  into  spiral  circles.  We  rocked  frightfully.  The 
craft's  steel  muscles  cracked.  At  times  it  seemed  to  stand 
upright. 

"We  must  hold  on,"  said  Land.  "We  may  be  saved  if  we 
stick  to  the  Nautilus — " 

He  had  not  finished  when  there  was  a  crashing  noise,  the 
bolts  gave  way,  and  the  boat  was  flung  from  its  groove  into  the 
midst  of  the  whirlpool.  My  head  struck  on  a  piece  of  iron  and 
I  lost  consciousness. 

How  the  boat  escaped,  or  what  happened  after  that,  I  do  not 
know.  But  we  came  out  of  that  hideous  gulf.  I  was  in  a 
fisherman's  hut  on  the  Loffoden  Islands  when  I  came  to,  with 
my  comrades  anxiously  watching  me. 

We  had  to  wait  for  a  chance  to  return  to  France,  and  here  I 
have  revised  the  record  of  this  incredible  expedition — ^not  one 
detail  exaggerated — in  that  element  deemed  inaccessible  to  Man, 
but  to  which  Progress  shall  one  day  open  a  road.  I  may  be  be- 
lieved or  not;  but  I  know  I  have  made  twenty  thousand  leagues 
in  a  submarine  tour  of  the  world. 

Does  the  Nautilus  exist?  Is  Captain  Nemo  alive?  Was 
that  last  hecatomb  the  end,  or  is  he  still  pursuing  an  awful 
vengeance?  Will  the  revealing  record  which  he  had  prepared 
of  his  life,  and  which  the  last  survivor  of  the  exiles  in  the  Nau- 
tilus was  to  cast  in  its  hermetically  sealed  case  into  the  sea,  ever 
be  found? 

This  I  know,  that  only  two  men  can  answer  the  question 
Ecclesiastes  asked  three  thousand  years  ago:  "That  which  is  far 
off  and  exceeding  deep,  who  can  find  it  out?"  and  they  are 
Captain  Nemo  and  myself. 


PUBLIUS  VIRGILIUS   MARO 

(Italy,  70-19  B.C.) 
THE  ^NEID 

Three  books  of  this  poem  the  author  read  to  Augustus,  shrewdly  throwing 
in  occasional  complimentary  allusions  to  the  Emperor's  ancestors.  While  he 
borrowed  his  plan  from  the  Iliad^  he  used  freely  such  Roman  traditions  and 
episodes  as  he  found  available.  The  publication  of  the  entire  poem  was  looked 
for  eagerly,  as  indicated  by  a  couplet  of  Propertius,  which  may  be  translated: 

Give  way,  give  vpay,  ye  Greek  and  Latin  writers  1 
A  greater  than  the  Iliad  is  being  born. 

It  took  its  place  at  once  as  the  national  epic.  The  author  alone  was  dissatisfied 
with  it;  and  he  revised  and  revised  again,  as  long  as  he  lived.  On  his  deathbed 
he  instructed  his  executors  to  burn  the  manuscript;  but  this  Augustus  forbade. 

[FTER  encountering  numberless  perils  by  sea  and 
land,  ^neas,  son  of  the  goddess  Venus  and  of 
Anchises  of  the  royal  house  of  Troy,  sailed  from 
Sicily  in  search  of  that  Italian  country  which, 
by  decree  of  the  Fates,  was  to  be  the  home  of 
himself  and  his  companions.  His  seven  years  of 
wandering  since  he  had  fled  from  the  smoking 
ruins  of  Ilium,  which  had  been  destroyed  by  the 
Greeks  in  the  ten  years'  war,  as  described  in  the 
Iliad,  were  to  end  at  last;  for  he  was  now  fast  nearing  the  prom- 
ised land.  But  he  had  not  reckoned  on  the  hate  of  Juno,  which 
still  pursued  this  sorry  remnant  of  the  men  of  Troy.  As  soon 
as  she  perceived  that  they  were  drawing  near  to  the  end  of  their 
journey  and  about  to  attain  their  goal,  her  soul  flamed  with  an- 
ger; for  deep  in  her  heart  she  held  the  memory  of  the  insult  of- 
fered to  her  slighted  beauty  by  Paris  on  Mount  Ida,  and  of  many 
other  wrongs  she  had  suffered  from  the  royal  house  of  Troy. 
Moreover,  she  had  intended  Carthage  to  be  the  queen  city  of  the 
world,  and  now  the  descendants  of  this  accursed  brood  were 
destined  to  destroy  it  in  the  coming  years.    But  these  Trojans 

128 


VIRGIL  129 

had  not  yet  landed  in  Italy,  and  even  the  Fates  might  be  ren- 
dered powerless  against  the  Queen  of  Heaven,  sister  and  wife  of 
the  ruler  of  gods  and  men. 

Pondering  on  these  things,  she  flew  down  to  iEolia,  where 
iEolus,  the  King  of  the  Winds,  had  his  abode.  Him  she  per- 
suaded, by  the  gift  of  the  fairest  of  her  attendants,  Deiopea,  to 
unchain  his  winds  and  sink  the  Trojan  ships,  and  willingly  he 
complied.  The  winds  rushed  forth,  the  heavens  became  dark 
as  night,  and  lightning  flashed  across  the  sky.  ^Eneas,  in  heart- 
stricken  tones,  gave  vent  to  his  anguish : 

"How  far  happier  they  who  fell  beneath  the  walls  of  Troy, 
before  the  eyes  of  their  fathers!" 

Some  of  the  ships  were  sunk,  others  driven  upon  rocks,  and 
soon  the  waves  were  strewn  with  broken  planks  and  the  arms 
and  treasures  of  Troy.  But,  just  when  destruction  seemed  cer- 
tain, Neptune,  from  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  heard  the  commotion 
and  came  to  the  help  of  the  wretched  Trojans.  With  wrathful 
words  he  rebuked  the  winds  and  bade  them  depart.  Then  he 
ordered  the  waves  to  be  still,  and,  aided  by  his  Tritons,  he  raised 
seven  ships,  all  that  were  left  out  of  a  fleet  of  twenty.  With 
these  iEneas  sailed  into  a  landlocked  harbor  on  the  African  coast. 
Venus,  heart-broken  at  this  disaster  to  her  son,  appealed  to 
Jupiter.  Had  he  not  pledged  his  word  that  ^Eneas  should  rule 
Latium,  and  that  his  descendants  should  rule  the  world?  Ju- 
piter smilingly  reassured  his  daughter  and  revealed  the  destinies 
of  her  descendants,  at  the  same  time  telling  her  that  she  herself 
should  receive  her  son,  the  great-hearted  ^neas,  into  the  heav- 
ens. Finally,  he  declared  that  two  divine  twin  brothers  would 
spring  from  Mars  and  a  descendant  of  iEneas.  One  of  these, 
named  Romulus,  would  found  a  city  and  call  it  Rome,  and  to 
this  city  would  Jupiter  grant  endless  and  boundless  empire. 
Nay,  Juno  herself  would  become  appeased  and  would  cherish 
the  Romans,  so  that  they  should  rule  even  Argos  and  Mycenae. 

Meanwhile,  ^Eneas,  attended  by  his  faithful  Achates,  had 
landed  for  the  purpose  of  exploring  the  strange  country  upon 
whose  shores  he  was  cast.  His  divine  mother  had  not  only 
inspired  the  Queen  of  Carthage  with  pity  for  the  sufferings  of 
Troy,  but  now,  in  the  disguise  of  a  Spartan  huntress,  appeared 
before  her  son  and  instructed  him  in  everything  it  was  useful 

A.D.,   VOL.    XVII. — 9 


130  THE  ^NEID 

for  him  to  know  with  regard  to  the  people  of  the  land.  She 
gave  him  an  account  of  its  present  Queen  Dido,  who,  after  the 
treacherous  murder  of  her  husband  Sichaeus  by  her  cruel  brother 
Pygmalion,  had  fled  from  Tyre  with  her  followers  and  was  here 
building  a  new  city.  Then,  when  she  was  about  to  leave  him, 
her  ambrosial  tresses  shed  a  fragrance  that  was  not  earthly,  and 
by  her  gait  the  goddess  was  disclosed.  In  vain  did  ^Eneas  ex- 
postulate with  his  mother;  she  vanished  from  his  eyes.  But  she 
had  first  thrown  a  cloud  around  the  Prince  and  Achates,  which 
no  mortal  eye  could  penetrate. 

^neas  safely  ascended  a  hill  from  which  he  had  a  clear  view 
of  the  rising  city.  He  perceived  a  grove,  and  therein  was  a  tem- 
ple, partly  built,  which  he  entered.  Great  comfort  did  the  spec- 
tacle he  beheld  bring  to  his  heart ;  for  depicted  on  its  walls  were 
all  the  misfortunes  of  Troy,  in  due  order,  and  he  recognized  his 
own  figure  among  its  heroes.  "  So  even  here,"  he  thought,  ^' there 
is  pity  for  unexampled  misfortune." 

Then  Dido  appeared,  with  her  train  of  attendants;  and  soon 
afterward  the  sailors  of  the  other  ships  of  ^Eneas,  who  had  all, 
save  one,  been  miraculously  saved,  appeared  before  the  Queen. 
They  complained  of  their  treatment  by  the  natives  after  landing, 
and  spoke  of  their  divine  leader,  whom  they  were  inclined  to  re- 
gard as  lost,  as  he  had  thought  they  were.  Dido's  gracious 
reply  fully  satisfied  ^Eneas. 

"  I  have  been  taught  by  my  own  sorrows  to  pity  the  sorrows 
of  others,"  she  answered. 

She  promised  them  her  protection  and  ordered  a  search  to 
be  made  in  every  direction  for  their  leader.  Thereupon  the 
cloud  disappeared,  and  ^Eneas  stood  revealed,  his  beauty  ren- 
dered more  godlike  than  ever  by  the  arts  of  his  mother;  and  the 
interview  between  him  and  the  Queen  was  followed  by  a  splendid 
banquet,  whereat  there  was  a  dazzling  display  of  golden  vases, 
silver  cups,  jeweled  goblets,  and  embroidered  purple,  and  all 
the  sumptuous  opulence  of  Tyre.  iEneas  sent  Achates  to  the 
ships  to  conduct  his  son  Ascanius  to  the  feast.  But  Venus  was 
on  the  watch;  she  knew  the  Tyrian  guile,  and  that  Dido  might 
change.  She  therefore  persuaded  her  son  Cupid  to  assume  the 
form  of  Ascanius,  while  the  true  Ascanius  she  carried,  fast 
bound  in  sleep,  to  Idahum.    When  the  false  Ascanius  reached 


VIRGIL  131 

the  banquet-hall,  the  hapless  Queen,  unconscious  of  the  future, 
kissed  and  fondled  him  in  her  arms,  and  with  every  embrace 
imbibed  deep  draughts  of  passionate  love.  At  the  close  of  the 
festival,  and  after  many  vague  questions  asked  by  Dido,  who 
was  not  satisfied  with  the  answers  of  ^Eneas,  the  Queen  re- 
quested the  hero  to  give  a  detailed  account  of  his  own  and  his 
country's  misfortunes;  and  the  Trojan  prince,  though  his  soul 
shrank  from  relating  the  unspeakably  lamentable  story,  could  not 
refuse  her  request. 

He  began  the  tale  of  the  capture  and  supreme  might  of  Troy, 
told  of  the  deceitful  offering  of  the  wooden  horse,  the  treachery 
of  Sinon,  Laocoon's  fruitless  attempts  to  prevent  the  gift  of  the 
Greeks  from  entering  the  city,  and  the  slaying  of  Laocoon  and 
his  sons  by  tlje  serpents  of  Minerva  sent  from  Tenedos.  He 
told  how  Hector,  covered  with  dust  and  blood,  came  to  him  in  a 
vision  and  bade  him  flee  the  doomed  city  and  found  elsewhere 
another  Troy.  But  when  -^neas  started  up  from  his  couch  and 
saw  Troy  in  flames,  he  resolved  not  to  flee,  but  to  avenge  him- 
self on  the  enemy  or  find  honor  in  death.  Then,  after  he  had 
fought  mightily  and  beheld  such  horrors  as  the  eyes  of  mortals 
never  before  had  witnessed,  he  obeyed  the  command  of  his 
divine  mother  to  flee  the  doomed  place.  Not  Helen,  not  Paris, 
had  laid  Ilium  low;  it  was  the  gods  themselves,  and  even  Jove 
supreme. 

Thereupon  he  betook  himself  to  his  house  and  bore  hence 
his  father  Anchises,  his  wife  Creiisa,  and  his  predestined  son. 
On  his  way  he  lost  Creiisa,  and  he  was  returning  to  seek  her 
when  her  spirit  appeared  to  him,  bidding  him  refrain,  and 
prophesying  the  greatness  of  his  race.  The  rest  of  the  year  was 
spent  by  him  and  such  of  the  Trojans  as  had  escaped  from 
Troy  in  building  ships  with  the  wood  of  Mount  Ida. 

When  the  summer  returned,  they  took  their  household 
■deities  on  board  and  sailed  whither  the  gods  might  direct  them. 
And  in  many  places  did  they  build  cities,  even  in  Thrace  and 
Crete,  fondly  hoping  that  these  in  succession  were  to  be  their 
homes.  But  quickly  were  they  warned  by  oracle  or  wasting 
pestilence  that  their  way  lay  farther,  imtil  at  last  the  household 
gods  appeared  to  ^Eneas  as  he  slept,  and  plainly  revealed  to  him 
that  Italy,  ancienJ:  and  fertile,  and  most  beautiful  of  lands,  was 


132  THE  ^NEID 

to  be  the  dwelling-place  of  him  and  his  companions,  where  his 
children's  children  would  found  a  city  destined  to  rule  over 
many  nations.  And  when  he  told  the  vision  to  his  father, 
Anchises  remembered  that  Cassandra  was  wont  to  prophesy 
such  things — truth-telling  Cassandra,  fated  never  to  be  believed. 

Then  did  the  hero  ^neas  relate  all  the  adventures  that  had 
befallen  him  before  he  came  to  Drepanum,  in  Sicily,  where  his 
father  died.  Most  lamentable  and  terrible  were  these  adven- 
tures, and  Queen  Dido  was  moved  to  the  very  depths  of  her  soul 
as  she  listened  to  the  story,  and  exceedingly  did  she  marvel  at  him 
who  told  it.  And  all  the  time,  unhappy  one !  she  had  been  hold- 
ing in  her  arms,  all  unknowingly,  the  invincible  God  of  Love. 
As  she  clung  to  the  lips  of  the  hero,  her  passion  grew  stronger 
and  more  overpowering;  and  mightier,  too,  grew  her  efforts  to 
keep  him  and  chain  him  to  her  shores.  But  much  as  the  hero 
would  have  liked  to  respond  to  her  love  and  dwell  with  her  in 
Carthage,  ^neas,  who  was  the  most  pious  of  mortal  men,  chose 
rather  to  obey  the  gods,  though  much  troubled  in  heart  for  the 
hapless  Queen.  For  Jupiter  himself  had  sent  down  Mercury 
to  warn  him  to  think  of  his  son  to  whom  the  Fates  had  given 
Italy  and  Rome.  He  bade  him  begone  at  once,  and  not  tarry. 
And  fain  was  the  hero,  although  stricken  with  sorrow,  to  con- 
sent.    So  he  made  ready  his  ships  and  departed. 

Then  the  raging  Queen  built  for  herself  a  pyre,  and  ascend- 
ing thereupon,  she  fell  upon  a  sword,  even  the  sword  which 
-^neas  had  left  in  her  chamber,  but  not  before  calling  upon  the 
Avenger  to  spring  from  her  bones  who  was  in  future  ages  to 
requite  her  wrongs  on  Rome. 

iEneas  and  his  companions,  now  far  from  land,  beheld  the 
flames  of  the  pyre,  and  knew  not  what  they  meant,  yet  feared 
some  evil  hap  to  Dido,  witting  that  a  raging  woman  is  capable 
of  any  furious  deed.  They  made  their  course  back  to  Sicily 
with  much  speed,  where  its  King,  Acestes,  born  of  a  Trojan 
mother,  received  them  with  great  honor  and  refreshed  them  with 
food  and  drink. 

It  being  now  a  year  since  the  death  of  Anchises,  ^neas 
decreed  funeral  games  for  his  father,  and  many  marvels  were 
seen  at  the  tomb  of  the  departed  hero,  wondrous  to  be  told. 
Great  was  the  multitude  that  came  to  view  the  games  and  the 


VIRGIL  133 

prizes  offered  by  iEneas  and  King  Acestes:  crowns,  palms, 
weapons,  purple  garments,  and  talents  of  gold  and  silver  and 
cups  of  the  same.  Then  the  trumpet  sounded,  and  the  games 
began  with  a  race  of  ships;  and  then  the  boxers  contended,  and 
in  the  contest  the  aged  Sicilian,  Entellus,  was  victor  over  the 
youthful  Trojan,  Dares,  and,  to  show  what  his  strength  must 
have  been  ere  age  enfeebled  it,  he  smote  the  ox,  offered  as  a 
prize,  with  his  gauntleted  fist,  and  lo !  it  fell  dead  to  the  ground. 
Other  games  there  were,  and  a  display  of  horsemanship  and  a 
feigned  battle  by  the  Trojan  youth.  And  Ascanius,  fairest  of 
them  all,  taught  this  custom,  after  he  had  built  Alba,  and 
thence  it  reached  Rome,  where  it  was  kept  forever. 

But  a  terrible  thing  happened  while  the  games  were  going 
on,  for  the  women,  weary  of  their  eternal  wanderings,  attempted 
to  burn  the  ships,  being  incited  thereunto  by  the  wiles  of  Juno. 
Ascanius,  being  the  first  to  perceive  the  fact,  rode  swiftly  to  the 
camp,  and  brought  JEnesiS  and  the  men  of  Troy.  Thereupon 
were  the  women  ashamed  and  fled.  But  the  fire  continued  to 
devour  the  ships,  and  the  pious  ^Eneas  rent  his  garments  and 
cried  to  the  gods.  They  heard  his  appeal,  and  a  great  storm, 
with  thunder  and  lightning,  quenched  the  flames;  but  four  of 
the  ships  were  destroyed.  Then  it  was  resolved  that  the  aged 
men  and  women,  and  those  who  were  weak  or  fearful,  should 
remain  in  Sicily,  Acestes  promising  to  build  a  city  for  them; 
and,  when  it  was  fine  weather,  ^Eneas  departed  with  the  others, 
few  indeed,  but  right  stout  of  heart. 

He  landed  near  Cumae,  for,  in  a  vision,  Anchises  had  bade 
him  consult  the  terrible  sibyl  who  dwelt  therein,  and  who,  the 
Fates  having  so  decreed,  would  guide  him  to  the  abodes  of  the 
dead.  And,  in  sooth,  he  reached  this  underworld  after  many 
strange  happenings ;  and  there  his  father  pointed  out  the  glorious 
shades  that  were  in  the  future  to  inform  the  bodies  of  Roman 
heroes.  And  he  spake  of  their  great  deeds,  and  taught  him  that 
souls  like  theirs  do  not  die  with  the  body,  but,  by  noble  service 
rendered  to  their  country,  cleave  a  path  to  heaven. 

^Eneas,  after  his  return  to  the  upper  air,  knew  not  that  he 
was  in  the  lands  marked  out  for  him  by  the  Oracles.  He  there- 
fore sent  ambassadors  to  Latinus,  its  King,  who,  being  divinely 
forewarned,  offered  him  his  daughter  Lavinia  in  marriage  and 


134  THE  ^NEID 

a  share  of  his  kingdom.  But  Juno,  though  baffled,  did  not  con- 
sider herself  defeated. 

"  If  I  cannot  persuade  Heaven,"  she  cried,  "  I  shall  appeal 
to  Hell." 

She  summoned  the  Fury  Alecto  from  Tartarus.  Amata,  the 
wife  of  Latinus,  had  already  betrothed  her  daughter  to  Tumus, 
the  young  King  of  the  Rutuli ;  and  the  Fury  inspired  her  and  all 
the  women  of  the  land  with  insane  rage  in  favor  of  Tumus. 
Then  she  betook  herself  to  the  Rutulian  prince  and  hurried  him 
to  the  combat,  and  he  was  supported  by  many  Italian  rulers, 
among  them  Camilla,  fleetest  and  bravest  of  virgin  warriors. 

iEneas  was  surrounded  and  was  fearful  of  the  future.  But 
the  god  of  the  River  Tiber  appeared  to  him  in  a  dream  and 
advised  him  to  seek  help  from  the  rustic  King  Evander,  whose 
little  realm  occupied  the  Seven  Hills,  one  day  to  be  the  site  of 
mighty  Rome.  The  monarch  received  ^Eneas  hospitably  in  his 
humble  cot,  and  granted  him  a  band  of  horsemen,  commanded 
by  his  son  Pallas.  And  when  iEneas  returned  to  the  camp,  his 
goddess-mother  bestirred  herself  to  persuade  Vulcan  to  make 
arms  and  armor  for  her  son,  even  as  he  once  had  done  for 
Achilles.  Her  husband  obeyed  her,  and  marvelous  they  were, 
but,  above  all,  the  shield,  whereon  were  wrought  not  only  all 
the  great  deeds  of  the  olden  men  of  Rome,  but  the  battle  of  the 
ships  at  the  Cape  of  Actium,  and  Augustus  Caesar  riding  tri- 
umphant through  Rome  amid  the  joyful  acclaim  of  the  people. 

But  before  ^Eneas  attained  the  wished-for  goal,  many  sore 
trials  awaited  him  in  the  struggle  with  Turnus,  because  of  the 
unrelenting  hate  of  Juno.  At  last  the  goddess  yielded  to  the 
commands  of  Jupiter,  stipulating  that  the  Latins  should  not  be 
called  after  the  name  of  Troy,  nor  change  their  speech  nor  their 
garb.  Then,  providing  Troy  had  perished  forever,  she  would 
consent  that  Rome  should  rule  the  world.  The  fate  of  Turnus 
was  therefore  decided.  In  his  last  encounter  with  his  enemy, 
the  spear  of  ^Eneas  pierced  his  thigh.  He  dropped  on  the 
groimd,  and  would  have  been  spared  by  the  hero  had  not  the 
latter  spied  upon  his  shoulders  the  belt  of  Pallas,  whom  the 
Rutulian  had  slain.  Then  did  ^Eneas  grow  wrathful,  and 
sacrifice  his  foe  to  the  shade  of  his  beloved  friend  and  ally,  and, 
groaning,  the  angry  spirit  of  Turnus  vanished  from  the  upper  air. 


FRANCOIS  MARIE  AROUET  VOLTAIRE 

(France,  i 694-1 778) 
ZADIG  (1760) 

Biting  satire  and  bitter  philosophy  were  Voltaire's  chief  characteristics, 
nowhere  better  displayed  than  in  this  famous  semi-allegorical  story,  which  was 
widely  read  in  its  day, 

N  Babylon,  in  the  reign  of  King  Moabdar,  lived 
a  young  man  named  Zadig,  of  a  good  disposition, 
improved  by  education.  Though  rich  and  young, 
he  had  learned  to  moderate  his  passions  and  to 
control  his  spirit. 

Zadig  never  boasted  of  his  conquests  among 
the  women  nor  affected  to  entertain  a  contemptible 
opinion  of  the  fair  sex.     He  was  generous  and  was 
never  afraid  of  obliging  the  ungrateful. 
He  was  wise,  for  he  sought  to  live  with  the  wise.     Instructed 
in  the  sciences  of  the  Chaldeans,  he  understood  the  principles 
of  natural  philosophy,  such  as  they  were  then  erroneously  sup- 
posed to  be. 

Being  rich,  of  course  Zadig  had  many  friends.  Blessed  with 
a  good  constitution,  a  handsome  figure,  a  mind  just  and  mod- 
erate, and  a  heart  noble  and  sincere,  he  fondly  imagined  that  he 
might  be  happy. 

Zadig  was  betrothed  to  Semira,  a  beauteous  daughter  of 
Babylon.  One  day,  as  the  sweethearts  were  walking  by  the 
banks  of  the  Euphrates,  a  band  of  armed  ruffians — attendants 
of  young  Orcan,  the  Prime  Minister's  nephew,  who  was  jealous 
of  Zadig's  popularity — made  a  sudden  attack  and  tried  to  carry 
off  Semira.  Zadig,  though  taken  unawares,  fought  valiantly. 
Assisted  by  two  faithful  slaves,  he  succeeded  in  beating  off  the 
ravishers  and  carried  home  the  fainting  lady. 

135 


136  ZADIG 

"Oh,  Zadig!"  said  she,  on  opening  her  eyes  and  beholding 
her  deliverer,  "I  loved  thee  formerly  as  my  intended  husband; 
I  now  love  thee  as  the  preserver  of  my  honor  and  my  life!" 

Her  injuries  were  slight,  but  Zadig  was  more  dangerously 
wounded.  An  arrow  had  pierced  his  face,  near  the  left  eye,  and 
an  abscess  formed. 

The  great  physician  Hermes  was  called  from  Memphis  to 
visit  the  patient,  and  declared  that  he  would  lose  the  eye. 

But  in  two  days  the  abscess  broke  and  Zadig' s  woimded  eye 
was  as  good  as  ever.  Old  Dr.  Hermes  wrote  a  book  to  prove 
that  it  ought  not  to  have  been  cured.  Zadig  did  not  read  the 
work;  but  as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  go  out,  hastened  to  pay 
a  visit  to  her  in  whom  all  his  hopes  of  happiness  were  cen- 
tered. 

Semira  had  been  in  the  country  three  days.  On  the  road 
thither  Zadig  learned  that  that  fine  lady,  having  openly  declared 
that  she  had  an  unconquerable  aversion  to  one-eyed  men,  had 
the  night  before  given  her  hand  to  Orcanl 

It  took  Zadig  a  long  time  to  recover  from  this  shock.  But 
in  the  end  his  reason  got  the  better  of  his  affliction,  and  the 
severity  of  his  fate  served  even  to  console  him. 

"Since,"  said  he,  "I  have  suffered  so  much  from  the  cruel 
caprice  of  a  woman  educated  in  our  best  court  society,  I  should 
probably  do  better  now  to  take  my  chances  with  the  daughter 
of  a  plain,  e very-day  citizen." 

So  he  married  Azora,  a  young  lady  of  the  greatest  prudence 
and  belonging  to  a  most  respectable  family.  For  three  months 
they  dwelt  together  in  all  the  delights  of  the  most  tender 
union. 

The  only  thing  Zadig  objected  to  was  that  his  wife  inclined 
to  levity,  and  was  rather  too  apt  to  find  that  the  best-looking  and 
most  forward  young  men  of  their  acquaintance  were  likewise  in- 
variably possessed  of  the  most  wit  and  virtue. 

One  morning  Azora  came  in  uttering  violent  exclamations 
against  the  young  Widow  Cosrou,  to  whom  she  had  been  paying 
a  visit  of  consolation. 

"Just  think!"  said  she,  "that  woman  had  a  tomb  built  for 
her  late  husband  beside  the  little  rivulet  that  runs  near  here, 
jEind  in  the  bitterness  of  her  grief  she  vowed  to  heaven  that  she 


VOLTAIRE 


137 


would  never  leave  the  spot  so  long  as  the  water  of  the  rivulet 
should  run  past  it.  Now,  what  do  you  suppose  she  is  doing  at 
this  moment?" 

"Turning  the  course  of  the  rivulet,  most  likely,"  answered 
Zadig. 

He  could  not  help  thinking  that  Azora  protested  too  much, 
and  he  was  far  from  being  pleased  with  such  ostentation  of 
virtue. 

Zadig  had  a  handsome  and  exemplary  young  friend  named 
Cador,  whom  he  decided  to  make  his  confidant,  having  secured 
his  fidelity,  as  he  thought,  by  a  considerable  present. 

^^uring  Azora's  temporary  absence  on  a  visit  to  her  mother, 
Zadig  caused  the  report  to  be  sent  out  that  he  had  died  suddenly 
and  been  buried  in  the  tomb  of  his  ancestors  at  the  end  of  the 
garden. 

The  distracted  wife,  or  widow,  wept  and  tore  her  hair  and 
cried  out  that  she  would  follow  her  husband  to  the  grave.  Ca- 
dor wept  with  her  and  begged  her  to  be  resigned.  Next  day  they 
wept  less  and  dined  together.  When  Cador  told  her  that  his 
friend  had  left  him  the  bulk  of  his  estate  and  suggested  that  she 
should  share  it  with  him,  the  lady  was  indignant,  but  at  last 
became  more  mild  and  gentle.  They  sat  longer  at  supper  than 
at  dinner.  They  now  talked  with  greater  confidence.  Azora 
praised  the  deceased,  but  admitted  that  he  had  many  failings 
from  which  Cador  was  free. 

Suddenly  Cador  was  seized  with  a  violent  pain  in  his  side. 
The  lady  was  greatly  concerned,  as  her  friend  grew  worse  and 
worse.  She  would  have  sent  for  old  Dr.  Hermes,  but  that  emi- 
nent specialist  had  gone  back  to  Memphis. 

"This  malady,"  declared  Cador,  "has  brought  me  to  the 
brink  of  the  grave  before  now.  There  is  but  one  remedy  that 
can  give  me  relief,  and  that  is  to  apply  to  my  side  the  nose  of  a 
man  who  is  newly  dead." 

Azora  reflected  upon  this  strange  case,  and  upon  the  attract- 
ive merits  of  young  Cador.     Finally  she  said : 

"  After  all,  since  my  poor  husband  is  now  well  on  his  way  to 
the  other  world,  the  Angel  Azrael  will  not  refuse  him  admittance 
just  because  his  nose  is  a  little  shorter  in  the  second  life  than  it 
was  in  the  first." 


138  ZADIG 

So  she  took  a  razor  and  went  to  the  tomb,  prepared  to  cut 
off  the  nose  of  Zadig.  But  the  supposed  corpse  rose  and  pro- 
tested, saying: 

"  Madam,  you  need  not  have  exclaimed  so  violently  against 
the  Widow  Cosrou.  This  little  plan  of  yours  to  cut  off  my  nose 
quite  equals  hers  of  turning  the  course  of  the  rivulet.  And  now, 
since  our  moon  of  honey  has  waned  into  a  moon  of  wormwood 
and  gall,  and  your  pleasure  is  elsewhere,  let  us  break  our  mar- 
riage contract  and  go  our  respective  ways  apart." 

Having  repudiated  Azora,  Zadig  retired  to  the  country,  lived 
alone,  and  became  a  philosopher. 

One  day  he  met  one  of  the  Queen's  eunuchs  running  toward 
him,  followed  by  several  officers,  who  appeared  to  be  eagerly 
searching  for  something. 

*' Young  man,"  quoth  the  first  officer,  "hast  thou  seen  the 
Queen's  dog?" 

"It  is  a  bitch,"  replied  Zadig,  with  great  modesty,  "and  not 
a  dog.  It  is  a  very  small  she-spaniel,  that  has  lately  whelped. 
She  limps  on  the  left  forefoot  and  has  veiy  long  ears." 

"Thou  hast  seen  her!"  cried  the  officer  eagerly. 

"No,"  replied  Zadig.  "I  have  not  seen  her,  nor  did  I  know 
until  this  moment  that  the  Queen  owned  a  canine  pet." 

At  this  same  time  it  chanced  that  the  finest  horse  of  the 
King's  stable  had  escaped  from  the  jockey  on  the  plains  of  Baby- 
lon. The  principal  huntsman,  who  was  out  searching  for  the 
steed,  addressed  himself  to  Zadig  just  as  the  other  officer  had 
about  the  dog. 

"He  is  the  fleetest  horse  in  the  stables,"  mused  Zadig,  speak- 
ing aloud,  but  as  if  to  himself.  "  He  stands  fifteen  hands  high, 
has  very  small  hoofs,  and  a  tail  three  feet  and  a  half  in  length. 
The  studs  on  his  bit  are  gold  of  twenty-three  carats,  and  his 
shoes  are  silver  of  eleven  pennyweights." 

"Which  way  did  he  go?  Where  is  he?"  demanded  the 
huntsman. 

"I  have  not  seen  him,"  answered  Zadig,  "and  never  heard 
of  him  before." 

The  officials  of  the  royal  household  were  sure  that  Zadig  had 
stolen  the  King's  horse  and  the  Queen's  spaniel.  They  therefore 
had  him  arrested  and  conducted  before  the  tribunal  where  he 


VOLTAIRE  139 

was  condemned  to  the  knout  and  to  spend  the  rest  of  his  days  at 
hard  labor  in   the  mines. 

Hardly  was  this  sentence  passed  when  horse  and  spaniel  were 
both  found. 

The  judges  reluctantly  let  Zadig  off  with  a  fine  of  four  hun- 
dred ounces  of  gold,  which  he  was  obliged  to  pay  as  a  penalty  for 
having  said  he  had  not  seen  what  he  had  seen.  After  paying 
his  fine  he  was  graciously  allowed  to  speak  in  his  own  defense, 
which  he  did  to  the  following  effect : 

"Ye  stars  of  justice,  illimitable  repositories  of  science,  mir- 
rors of  truth,  who  have  the  weight  of  lead,  the  hardness  of  iron, 
the  brilliance  of  the  diamond,  and  many  of  the  properties  of 
gold,  hear  me,  as  I  swear  to  you  by  Oromazes  that  I  never  have 
seen  the  Quee'n's  honorable  spaniel,  nor  the  peerless  horse  of 
the  King  of  kings.  The  truth  of  the  matter  is  this :  In  walking 
leisurely  toward  the  little  wood  I  observed  on  the  sand  the  traces 
of  an  animal,  plainly  those  of  a  little  dog.  The  light  and  long 
furrows  impressed  on  little  eminences  of  sand  between  the  marks 
of  the  paws  showed  that  it  was  a  female,  whose  breasts  were 
hanging  down,  so  that  she  must  have  recently  whelped.  Other 
traces,  of  a  different  kind,  that  alw.ays  appeared  to  have  gently 
brushed  the  surface  of  the  sand  near  the  marks  of  the  forefeet, 
indicated  that  she  had  very  long  ears;  and  as  I  remarked  that 
there  was  always  a  slighter  impression  made  on  the  sand  by  one 
foot  than  by  the  other  three,  I  concluded  that  the  pet  of  our 
august  Queen  was  a  little  lame,  if  I  may  be  allowed  the  ex- 
pression. 

"  With  regard  to  the  horse  of  the  King  of  kings,  you  will  be 
pleased  to  know  that  while  walking  in  the  lanes  of  this  wood,  I 
observed  the  marks  of  a  horse's  shoes,  all  at  equal  distances. 
This  must  be  a  horse,  said  I  to  myself,  that  gallops  excellently. 
The  dust  on  the  bushes  in  a  road  that  was  but  seven  feet  wide 
was  a  little  brushed  off  at  the  distance  of  three  feet  and  a  half 
from  the  middle  of  the  road.  This  horse,  said  I,  has  a  tail  three 
feet  and  a  half  long,  which,  being  whisked  to  right  and  left,  has 
swept  away  the  dust.  I  noticed  under  the  trees,  which  over- 
arched, forming  an  arbor  five  feet  above  the  ground,  that  leaves 
from  the  branches  were  newly  fallen;  from  whence  I  inferred 
that  the  horse  had  touched  them,  and  that  he  must  therefore  be 


140  ZADIG 

fifteen  hands  high.  As  to  his  bit,  it  must  be  gold  of  twenty-three 
carats,  for  he  had  rubbed  its  bosses  against  a  stone  which  I  knew 
to  be  a  touchstone  and  which  I  have  tried.  From  the  marks 
made  by  his  shoes  on  flints  of  another  kind,  I  thought  he  must 
be  shod  with  silver  eleven  deniers  fine." 

This  speech  was  much  applauded  and  the  news  of  it  reached 
even  the  King  and  the  Queen.  But  as  many  of  the  magi  were 
of  opinion  that  Zadig  ought  to  be  burned  as  a  sorcerer,  the  King 
ordered  that  the  amount  of  the  fine  which  he  had  paid  should 
be  restored  to  him.  The  registrar,  attorneys,  and  bailiffs  came 
with  great  formality  to  bring  him  back  his  four  hundred  ounces 
of  gold.  They  only  held  out  three  hundred  and  ninety-eight 
ounces  of  it  to  defray  the  expenses  of  justice. 

Zadig,  having  thus  found  how  dangerous  it  is  to  live  alone 
and  acquire  too  much  knowledge  in  one  direction,  reopened  his 
town  house,  patronized  literature,  and  gave  sumptuous  entertain- 
ments to  men  and  women  of  letters.  Among  his  guests  was  one 
Arimazes,  surnamed  the  Envious.  This  eminent  literary  man 
would  go  to  Zadig's  to  feast  and  remain  to  criticize.  One  eve- 
ning he  found  a  scrap  of  manuscript  in  his  host's  handwriting, 
which  seemed  to  be  part  of  a  quatrain  of  verse  torn  in  two. 
Examining  the  lines  more  closely,  he  discovered  that  they  made 
sense  and  contained  injurious  reflections  upon  the  King.  They 
ran  thus: 

To  flagrant  crimes 

His  crown  he  owes; 
To  peaceful  times 

The  worst  of  foes. 

The  envious  man  was  happy  for  once  in  his  life. 

"These  verses,"  said  he,  "have  no  literary  merit.  But  they 
are  full  of  treason,  and  I  think  therein  I  can  perceive  Zadig's 
fall." 

He  sent  the  scrap  of  paper  to  the  King,  and  without  any  of 
the  proverbial  law's  delay  Zadig  was  imprisoned,  tried  and  con- 
victed, and — without  being  allowed  to  speak,  because  his  writing 
spoke  for  him — sentenced  to  be  impaled. 

His  relatives  were  inconsolable,  for  they  could  not  succeed  to 
his  estate.    Three  fourths  of  his  wealth  was  confiscated  into  the 


VOLTAIRE  141 

King's  treasury,  and  the  other  fourth  went  to  the  envious  critic 
who  had  accused  him. 

On  the  day  set  for  the  execution,  just  as  Zadig  was  preparing 
for  death,  the  King's  parrot  flew  from  its  perch  and  aHghted  in 
Zadig' s  garden  to  pick  up  a  ripe  peach  blown  from  a  tree  in  the 
orchard.  A  piece  of  paper  with  writing  on  it  stuck  to  the  peach 
as  it  had  fallen.  The  bird  carried  off  peach  and  paper  and  laid 
them  on  the  King's  knee. 

The  King  looked  at  the  writing  and  was  interested  to  see  that 
it  resembled  poetry,  being  divided  off  into  short  lines  with  no 
intelligible  meaning.  He  handed  the  piece  of  paper  to  the  Queen, 
and  she,  on  an  impulse  of  compassion,  or  else  curiosity,  asked 
Zadig  if  he  could  explain  it,  as  the  handwriting  resembled  that 
of  the  verses  for  which  he  was  now  going  to  the  stake.     He  said : 

''If  your  gracious  Majesties  will  put  the  two  scraps  of  paper 
together  they  may  possibly  be  found  to  match." 

And  so  they  did.  The  lines  then  appeared  as  Zadig  had 
originally  written  them : 

Tyrants  are  prone  to  flagrant  crimes; 

To  clemency  his  crown  he  owes; 
To  concord  and  to  peaceful  times 

Love  only  is  the  worst  of  foes. 

A  great  light  burst  upon  the  King.  He  not  only  liberated 
Zadig  and  restored  his  fortune,  but  also  gave  him  such  prefer- 
ment that  the  young  man,  in  a  comparatively  brief  time,  rose  to 
be  Prime  Minister  of  the  State. 

Zadig  eloquently  thanked  the  King  and  Queen  for  all  their 
goodness,  and  he  did  not  forget  likewise  to  thank  the  parrot. 

"Beautiful  bird,"  said  he,  "thou  didst  save  my  hfe,  and  now 
I  am  happy  at  last.  But  the  fates  of  mortals  hang  on  slender 
threads.     Perhaps  this  happiness  will  vanish  very  soon." 

"  Soon,"  echoed  the  parrot. 

The  word  startled  Zadig,  but  he  quickly  recovered  his  poise 
and  resolved  to  execute  his  duties  to  the  best  of  his  power. 

His  chief  talent  consisted  in  discovering  the  talent  which 
men  for  the  most  part  seek  to  obscure.  For  the  time  being  all 
the  world  favored  him,  not  because  he  was  wise  or  was  a  man  of 
real  merit,  but  because  he  was  Prime  Vizier. 


142  ZADIG 

An  affinity,  mysterious  and  overwhelming,  was  the  sudden 
cause  of  Zadig's  undoing.  The  awful  thing  about  it  was  that 
this  affinity  was  none  other  than  the  beautiful  Queen  Astarte 
herself,  and  her  gentle  heart  was  pierced  with  the  same  fatal 
arrow  that  had  wounded  Zadig. 

When  their  eyes  met  they  seemed  to  say:  "We  adore  each 
other  and  yet  are  afraid  to  love ;  we  are  consumed  with  a  passion 
which  we  both  condemn." 

Zadig  took  heroic  resolution  and  set  out  to  fly  into  Egypt — 
the  more  precipitately  as  he  had  learned  from  his  faithful  friend 
Cador  that  the  King  was  secretly  planning  to  have  him  strangled. 

Hardly  had  our  philosopher-hero  crossed  the  Egyptian  fron- 
tier when  he  had  occasion  to  kill  a  native  named  Clitofis,  who 
was  barbarously  ill-treating  a  fair  and  unprotected  damsel. 
She,  after  appealing  to  Zadig  for  help,  now  bitterly  reproached 
him  for  having  slain  her  lover.  At  this  juncture  four  Babylo- 
nian couriers  came  along  and  carried  off  Missouf — for  that  was 
the  fickle  lady's  name. 

The  Egyptians  tried  Zadig  for  murder,  but  on  account  of 
extenuating  circumstances  let  him  go  with  the  relatively  light 
penalty  of  being  sold  as  a  slave.  He  was  bought  by  Setoc,  an 
enlightened  Arabian  merchant,  and  taken  to  a  far  kingdom  in 
the  desert. 

Setoc  soon  found  out  that  Zadig  was  a  sage  and  employed 
him  as  his  counsel  in  a  case  against  a  Jew  who  refused  to  repay 
a  loan  of  five  hundred  ounces  of  silver,  beca\ise  the  witnesses  of 
the  transaction  were  dead. 

"In  what  place,"  asked  Zadig,  "didst  thou  lend  the  five  hun- 
dred ounces  to  this  infidel?" 

"Upon  a  large  stone,"  answered  the  merchant,  "that  lies 
in  yonder  foothills  of  Mount  Oreb." 

Having  summoned  the  Jew  before  the  tribunal,  Zadig  ad- 
dressed the  Judge  in  the  following  terms : 

"  O  pillar  of  the  throne  of  equity !  I  come  to  demand  of  this 
man,  in  the  name  of  my  master,  five  hundred  ounces  of  silver 
which  he  refuses  to  repay." 

"Hast  thou  any  witnesses?"  asked  the  Judge. 

"No,  mighty  Justice,  they  are  dead.  But  there  remains  a 
large  stone  upon  which  the  money  was  counted,  and  if  it  pleases 


VOLTAIRE  143 

thy  grandeur  to  order  the  stone  brought  into  court,  I  hope  that 
it  will  bear  witness.  I  will  send  for  it  at  my  master's  expense, 
and  the  Hebrew  and  I  will  tarry  here  till  the  stone  arrives." 

Later  in  the  day,  when  the  court  was  about  to  adjourn,  the 
Judge  said  to  Zadig: 

^'Well,  friend,  hath  thy  stone  not  yet  arrived?" 

At  this  the  Hebrew  laughed  loudly,  and  said : 

"  Thy  grandeur  might  stay  here  all  night,  and  yet  not  see  the 
stone.  Why,  it  is  more  than  six  miles  from  here,  and  it  would 
require  fifteen  men  to  move  it." 

"Ah!"  cried  Zadig,  "did  I  not  say  the  stone  would  bear  wit- 
ness? Since  this  man  knows  where  it  is,  and  all  about  it,  he 
thereby  confesses  it  was  upon  that  stone  the  money  was  counted." 

The  Hebrew  Was  confounded,  and  finally  acknowledged  the 
truth;  whereupon  the  Judge  ordered  him  to  be  chained  to  the 
stone,  without  meat  or  drink,  until  he  should  pay — ^which  shortly 
he  did. 

Zadig  grew  in  favor  with  his  master,  who  now  made  the  young 
Babylonian  his  partner  and  bosom  friend.  His  repute  for  wis- 
dom spread  throughout  Arabia,  and  he  was  instrumental  in 
bringing  about  some  notable  reforms.  One  of  these  was  the 
abolition  of  the  ancient  custom  of  widows  burning  themselves 
on  their  deceased  husbands'  funeral  pyres.  An  amiable  and 
attractive  young  woman  named  Almona,  whom  Zadig  rescued 
from  this  horrible  death,  subsequently  became  the  wife  of  Setoc. 

The  priests  of  the  stars,  finding  that  Zadig's  reforms  de- 
prived them  of  certain  rich  perquisites  they  had  been  getting, 
took  advantage  of  his  temporary  absence  when  he  accompanied 
Setoc  to  the  fair  of  Balzora,  had  him  tried  and  convicted  of 
heresy,  and  sentenced  to  be  burned  by  a  slow  fire. 

It  was  all  the  combined  influence  of  Setoc  and  Almona  could 
do  to  get  Zadig  off,  and  then  he  had  to  leave  Arabia,  taking 
flight  for  the  Island  of  Serendib.  There,  by  his  sensible  advice 
and  judicious  services  to  the  ruler,  he  soon  drew  upon  himself 
the  enmity  of  various  powerful  factions,  and  narrowly  escaped 
being  poisoned. 

"I  must  go  away,"  mused  Zadig,  "but  whither?  I  should 
be  enslaved  in  Egypt,  burned  in  Arabia,  strangled  in  Babylon. 
However,  I  must  learn  what  has  become  of  Queen  Astarte.     I 


144  ZADIG 

will  push  on  toward  Babylon  once  more,  and  see  what  troubles 
fate  still  has  in  store  for  me." 

On  the  frontier  Zadig  encountered  the  great  robber  baron 
Arbogad,  who  took  a  fancy  to  him  and  tried  to  induce  him  to  join 
the  brigands. 

"This  is  not  a  bad  profession,"  urged  Arbogad,  "and  thou 
mayest  one  day  become  what  I  am  at  present.  I  began  by  steal- 
ing two  horses.  Then  I  organized  a  company  and  put  myself 
in  a  way  to  hold  up  small  caravans.  Thus  by  degrees  I  wiped 
out  the  difference  which  had  formerly  subsisted  between  me  and 
rich  men.  I  was  greatly  respected  and  became  a  captain  of  the 
robber  industry.  This  castle  I  seized  by  force.  The  satrap  of 
Syria  would  have  dispossessed  me;  but  I  was  too  rich  to  have 
anything  to  fear.  I  gave  the  satrap  a  handsome  present,  and 
he  appointed  me  receiver  of  taxes  for  this  province.  I  perform 
my  duties  as  receiver  with  punctuality  and  exactness;  but  the 
petty  duties  of  paymaster  are  so  irksome  that  I  wish  to  be  rid  of 
them. 

"The  grand  Desterham  of  Babylon,"  continued  the  genial 
robber  baron,  "  sent  hither  an  under- satrap,  with  a  delegation  in 
the  name  of  King  Moabdar,  to  have  me  strangled.  I  had  the 
four  delegates  strangled  and  took  the  satrap  into  my  own  service, 
where  he  is  making  twice  as  much  money  as  he  did  in  Babylon. 
If  thou  wilt  take  my  advice,  friend  Zadig,  thy  success  may  be 
equal  to  his.  This  is  the  best  season  for  plunder  that  we  have 
had  in  years,  since  King  Moabdar  is  killed  and  all  Babylon 
thrown  into  confusion. 

"Moabdar  killed!"  cried  Zadig — for  this  was  the  first  news 
he  had  heard  from  Babylon  since  his  flight — "and  what  has 
become  of  Queen  Astarte?" 

"All  I  know,"  answered  Arbogad,  "is  that  Moabdar  lost 
his  senses  and  was  killed.  If  the  Queen  did  not  also  perish  in 
the  tumult  she  was  probably  carried  off  by  the  Prince  of  Hir- 
cania,  who  was  attracted  by  her." 

So  saying,  the  happy  robber  drank  himself  to  sleep.  Zadig 
took  the  opportunity  to  steal  away,  and  proceeded  on  his  journey 
with  a  mind  full  of  disquiet  and  perplexity. 

He  had  not  gone  many  leagues  before  he  met  a  fisherman, 
who  had  a  tale  of  wo  to  tell — house  and  business  gone,  wife 


VOLTAIRE  145 

stolen,  money  all  spent  for  legal  advice,  and  now  even  the  fish 
would  not  bite.  These  things  had  happened  in  Babylon,  and 
the  Prince  of  Hircania  was  at  the  bottom  of  it  all. 

Zadig  gave  the  fisherman  some  money  and  spurred  on  to 
Babylon.  Yet  as  he  rode  through  a  beautiful  meadow  he  could 
not  help  noticing  a  lovely  lady  of  desolate  aspect  seated  beside 
a  stream  and  tracing  letters  in  the  sand. 

He  dismounted,  drew  near,  saw  the  letter  Z,  then  A,  then 
D — ^yes,  his  own  name ! 

"By  what  surprising  adventure,"  he  exclaimed,  "do  I  here 
find  the  name  of  Zadig  traced  out  by  a  divine  hand?" 

The  lady  lifted  her  veil,  looked  at  Zadig,  sent  forth  a  cry  of 
tenderness,  surprise,  and  joy  and  fell  speechless  into  his  arms. 
It  was  Astarte  herself,  the  beauteous  Queen  of  Babylon,  for 
whose  fate  Zadig  had  been  so  anxiously  concerned. 

She  told  him  her  strange  story — that  the  jealous  King  had 
sought  her  life,  and  after  she  hid  in  the  temple  had  sent  couriers 
after  her,  who  brought  in  the  capricious  Missouf  by  mistake; 
that  the  King  had  taken  up  with  this  Egyptian  woman,  who 
finally  drove  him  mad ;  and  how  the  Prince  of  Hircania  had  then 
stepped  in  and  sacked  Babylon.  This  predatory  Prince  had 
indeed  intended  Astarte  for  his  seraglio;  but  the  Queen  escaped 
by  inducing  the  willing  Missouf  to  take  her  place.  Then  the 
unhappy  fugitive  was  captured  by  the  robber  baron  Arbogad's 
band,  who  sold  her  to  Lord  Ogul. 

"And  at  this  moment,"  concluded  the  weeping  Astarte, 
"thou  seest  me  a  slave  to  Ogul,  who  is  a  voluptuary  and  dwells 
in  yonder  castle.  He  is  corpulent  and  suffers  from  indigestion, 
whereupon  his  physician  has  persuaded  him  that  a  basilisk 
stewed  in  rose-water  is  the  only  thing  that  can  cure  him.  Lord 
Ogul  hath  promised  to  marry  the  female  slave  who  shall  bring 
him  a  basilisk — though  little  am  I  desirous  of  finding  one  now." 

"Leave  that  to  me,"  said  Zadig  reassuringly.  "Since  the 
basilisk  is  an  imaginary  creature,  I  will  readily  undertake  to  sup- 
ply what  Lord  Ogul  desires." 

Zadig,  being  introduced  to  this  mighty  lord,  spoke  to  him  in 
the  following  terms: 

"Wishing  thy  lordship  immortal  health!  I  am  a  physician 
and  have  brought  thee  a  basilisk  stewed  in  rose-water.  Not  that 
A.D.,  VOL.  xvn. — 10 


146  ZADIG 

I  wish  to  marry  thee,  magnificent  Lord  Ogul.  All  I  ask  is  the 
liberty  of  a  Babylonian  slave  who  recently  came  into  thy  pos- 
session. If  I  fail  to  cure  thee,  I  consent  to  remain  a  slave  in  her 
place." 

The  proposal  was  accepted.    Then  Zadig  spoke  thus: 

"My  lord,  the  basilisk  is  not  to  be  eaten;  all  its  virtues  must 
enter  through  the  pores  of  thy  skin.  I  have  enclosed  it  in  a  little 
ball,  blown  up  and  covered  with  fine  leather.  Thou  must  strike 
this  ball  with  all  thy  might  and  I  must  strike  it  back.  By  ob- 
serving this  regimen  for  a  few  days  thou  wilt  see  the  effects  of 
my  art." 

The  first  day  Ogul  was  out  of  breath  and  thought  he  should 
have  died  from  fatigue.  The  second  he  was  less  tired  and  slept 
better.  In  less  than  a  fortnight  he  had  recovered  the  health, 
strength,  and  agility  of  his  imiversity  years.  Then  Zadig  told 
him: 

"Thou  hast  played  at  handball  and  hast  been  temperate. 
Know  that  there  is  no  such  thing  in  nature  as  a  basilisk;  that 
temperance  and  exercise  are  the  two  great  preservatives  of 
health." 

This,  of  course,  infuriated  the  naturalists,  physicians,  and 
apothecaries,  and  at  the  banquet  given  in  celebration  of  Lord 
Ogul's  recovery  they  prepared  a  certain  dish  for  Zadig,  calcu- 
lated speedily  to  send  him  searching  for  basilisks  to  another 
world.  The  fatal  dish  was  to  have  been  served  in  the  second 
course,  but  during  the  first  Zadig  was  suddenly  called  away  by 
an  urgent  message  to  join  Queen  Astarte. 

They  returned  to  Babylon  and  the  Queen  was  received  with 
joyous  demonstrations  by  the  people,  for  the  Prince  of  Hircania 
had  been  killed  and  all  was  quiet  along  the  Euphrates  once  more. 

It  was  resolved  that  Astarte  should  wed  again  and  that  her 
consort,  to  become  King  of  Babylon,  should  be  the  man  proved 
to  be  possessed  of  the  greatest  valor  and  the  greatest  wisdom. 
The  politicians  were  eager  to  select  this  man  by  their  customary 
methods,  but  Astarte  and  the  sages  had  another  plan. 

The  hero,  to  win  Astarte's  hand  and  kingdom,  must  prove 
himself  the  champion  of  champions  with  lance  and  sword  at  a 
grand  field  tournament,  and  then  he  must  vanquish  all  comers 
at  guessing  enigmas  proposed  by  the  magi. 


VOLTAIRE  147 

Zadig,  equipped  with  a  suit  of  armor  by  Astarte  herself,  and 
mounted  on  the  finest  horse  in  Persia — a  gift  from  his  old  friend 
Cador — came  out  a  comparatively  easy  winner  at  the  tourna- 
ment. The  enigmas  looked  more  serious;  but  Zadig,  fired  by 
the  confidence  and  favor  of  Astarte,  besought  Venus  to  fortify 
his  courage  and  enlighten  his  understanding. 

The  question  proposed  by  the  grand  magi  was : 

"  What,  of  all  things  in  the  world,  is  the  longest  and  the  short- 
est, the  swiftest  and  the  slowest,  the  most  divisible  and  the  most 
multiplied,  the  most  neglected  and  the  most  regretted,  without 
which  nothing  can  be  done,  which  devours  all  that  is  little  and 
develops  all  that  is  great?" 

After  other  contestants  had  guessed  "Fortune,"  "Light," 
"the  Earth,"  and  other  foolish  answers,  Zadig  said: 

"This  is  easy.  Time  is  the  only  correct  answer  to  your  little 
conundrum.  Nothing  can  be  longer  than  time,  since  it  is  the 
measure  of  eternity;  nor  anything  shorter,  when  we  consider  its 
insufficiency  for  the  realization  of  our  projects.  Nothing  is  more 
slow  to  the  expectant,  nothing  more  fleeting  to  him  that  enjoys. 
In  greatness  it  extends  to  infinity,  in  smallness  it  is  infinitely 
divisible.  All  men  neglect  it,  all  regret  the  loss  of  it,  and  nothing 
can  be  done  without  it.  It  consigns  to  oblivion  whatever  is  un- 
worthy and  immortalizes  what  is  truly  great." 

The  assembly  acknowledged  that  Zadig  had  solved  the 
enigma. 

So  Zadig  was  made  king,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  whole 
country  acknowledged  him  to  be  a  genius  as  well  as  an  honest 
and  a  courageous  man. 

Among  his  first  appointments  he  placed  Setoc,  the  Arabian 
merchant,  at  the  head  of  the  kingdom's  commerce,  and  made 
Arbogad,  the  jolly  robber,  his  secretary  of  war.  He  ordered 
that  the  poor  fisherman's  property  and  wife  should  be  restored 
to  him;  but  the  fisherman,  who  had  now  grown  wise,  took  only 
the  money.    The  envious  critic  died  of  apoplexy  and  rage. 

The  empire,  though  governed  by  love  and  justice,  enjoyed 
peace,  honor,  and  prosperity.  The  people  blessed  Zadig,  and 
Zadig  thanked  Heaven.     His  was  the  happiest  age  of  the  earth. 

All  this  happened  a  long  time  ago. 


HORACE  WALPOLE 


(England,  171 7-1 791) 
THE   CASTLE   OF  OTRANTO   (1765) 

This  story  was  suggested  to  Horace  Walpole  by  a  dream  of  which  he  said: 
"All  I  could  recover  was,  that  I  had  thought  myself  in  an  ancient  castle,  and  that 
on  the  uppermost  baluster  of  a  great  staircase  I  saw  a  gigantic  hand  in  armor. 
In  the  evening  I  sat  down  and  began  to  write  without  knowing  in  the  least  what 
I  intended  to  relate."  It  was  written  in  two  months,  and  professed  to  be  a. 
translation  by  "William  Marshal,  gentleman,  from  the  Italian  of  Onuphro- 
Muralto,  canon  of  the  Church  of  St.  Nicholas,  at  Otranto."  The  incidents  are 
such  as  were  believed  in  the  dark  ages  of  Christianity.  The  story  is  supposed 
to  have  happened  in  the  time  of  the  crusades  between  1095  and  1243.  It  points 
the  moral  that  "the  sins  of  the  fathers  are  visited  on  the  children  to  the  third 
and  fourth  generations,"  but  piously  recommends  devotion  to  St.  Nicholas  as  a 
diversion  of  the  anathema.  The  story  was  a  sign  of  the  reaction  toward  romance 
in  the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

[ANFRED,  Prince  of  Otranto,  had  two  children — 
Conrad,  a  boy  of  fifteen,  and  Matilda,  a  beautiful 
girl  three  years  older.  Conrad  was  sickly  and  in- 
firm from  his  birth,  but,  notwithstanding  his 
youth  and  his  poor  health,  his  father  was  deter- 
mined to  make  his  birthday  the  day  of  his  wed- 
ding. He  had  chosen  Isabella,  the  daughter  of 
the  Marquis  of  Vicenza,  as  the  bride. 

When  the  company  was  assembled  in  the 
chapel  for  the  ceremony,  Conrad  was  suddenly  missing.  The 
domestic  who  was  sent  to  find  him  came  back  in  a  state  of  fright, 
gasping,  ''Oh!  the  helmet!  The  helmet!"  The  father  rushed 
out  into  the  court  and  beheld  his  son  dashed  to  pieces  and  al- 
most buried  under  a  gigantic  helmet  shaded  with  a  quantity  of 
sable  plumes.  Manfred  and  the  frightened  crowd  stood  aghast, 
their  one  inquiry  being,  whence  could  it  have  come?  At  last  a 
young  peasant  observed  that  the  miraculous  helmet  was  like 
that  on  the  black  marble  figure  of  Alfonso  in  the  Church  of  St. 

Nicholas. 

148 


HORACE   WALPOLE  J49 

"How  darest  thou  utter  such  treason?''  demanded  Manfred. 
"Thy  life  shall  pay  for  it." 

At  this  some  of  the  spectators  ran  to  the  church  and  came 
back  declaring  that  the  helmet  was  indeed  missing.  Though 
the  helmet  in  the  church  was  of  marble,  and  this  one  was  of 
steel,  Manfred  pronounced  the  young  man  a  necromancer  and 
ordered  him  kept  prisoner  under  the  helmet. 

Manfred  retired  to  his  chamber  and  refused  to  see  anyone, 
though  his  wife,  Hippolita,  beside  herself  with  grief  for  her  son 
and  anxiety  for  her  husband,  had  sent  Matilda  to  comfort  her 
father.  Hippolita  was  about  to  go  herself,  when  Manfred's 
servant  arrived  and  told  Isabella  that  his  lord  demanded  to  speak 
with  her.  When  they  came  to  the  Prince,  he  dismissed  the 
servant  and  bade 'Isabella  sit  by  him,  while  he  addressed  her: 

"I  sent  for  you  on  a  matter  of  great  moment.  You  have 
lost  your  bridegroom,  and  I  have  lost  the  hopes  of  my  race.  But 
Conrad  was  not  worthy  of  your  beauty." 

Isabella,  fearful  lest  her  indifference  to  Conrad  had  been 
observed,  began  to  protest  vehemently  and  urge  her  devotion 
to  his  Highness  and  Hippolita. 

"  Curses  on  Hippolita,"  cried  Manfred.  "  I  divorce  her  from 
this  hour.  Too  long  has  she  cursed  me  by  her  unfruitfulness. 
In  short,  Isabella,  since  I  cannot  give  you  my  son,  I  offer  you 
myself." 

Isabella,  half  dead  with  fright  and  amazement  shrieked  and 
started  from  him.  At  that  instant  she  saw  through  the  window 
the  plumes  on  the  fatal  helmet  waving  backward  and  forward. 
"See,"  she  said,  "Heaven  itself  declares  against  your  impious 
intention." 

"Heaven  nor  hell  shall  impede  my  designs,"  said  Manfred. 

At  these  words  the  portrait  of  his  grandfather  hanging  above 
the  bench  uttered  a  deep  sigh  and  heaved  its  breast.  Slowly  it 
left  its  panel,  descended  to  the  floor,  and  entered  a  chamber  on 
the  right.  Manfred  tried  to  follow,  but,  finding  the  door  securely 
closed,  turned  back  for  Isabella,  who  had  used  this  opportunity 
to  escape. 

The  girl  had  recollected  a  subterranean  passage  leading  to 
the  church  at  whose  altar  she  knew  not  even  Manfred's  violence 
would  dare  touch  her.     Fleeing  through  the  passages  and  vaults, 


I50 


THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO 


she  halted  in  terror  on  seeing  a  form  that  she  believed  to  be  the 
ghost  of  Conrad,  and  shrieked.  The  words,  "  Be  not  alarmed, 
lady;  I  will  not  injure  you,"  reassured  her,  and  she  implored 
the  figure  to  help  her  find  the  trap-door.  A  ray  of  moonlight 
came  to  their  assistance,  but  hardly  had  her  protector  lifted  the 
door  and  helped  her  descend  when  it  fell  with  a  thud,  leaving 
him  to  meet  the  angry  Manfred,  who  was  pursuing  the  fleeing 
maiden.  Manfred's  astonishment  was  great  when  the  torches 
borne  by  his  servants  revealed  the  peasant  whom  he  believed  to 
be  still  under  the  helmet. 

"Tell  me  thy  accomplice,"  Manfred  demanded. 

The  youth  pointed  to  the  floor,  where  it  could  be  seen  that, 
as  it  fell  over  the  peasant,  the  helmet  had  broken  through  into 
the  vault,  leaving  a  gap  through  which  the  fellow  had  pressed 
himself.  The  youth  was  endeavoring  to  explain  the  noise  of  the 
door  without  incriminating  Isabella,  when  two  domestics,  des- 
patched through  the  house  to  search  for  her,  came  into  Man- 
fred's presence,  frightened  out  of  their  wits.  They  had  opened 
the  door  of  the  great  chamber  and  seen  the  armor-clad  foot  and 
leg  of  a  giant.  The  young  peasant  bravely  offered  to  go  and 
investigate;  but  Manfred,  accepting  his  company,  refused  to 
trust  any  eyes  but  his  own. 

At  the  door  of  the  gallery  they  met  Hippolita  and  her  chap- 
lain, who  assured  him  they  had  visited  the  chamber  and  found 
nothing.  Manfred,  having  now  locked  the  young  man  in  a 
small  room  and  dismissed  the  others  for  the  night,  retired  to  his 
apartment. 

Matilda,  being  unable  to  sleep  and  being  anxious  about  the 
disappearance  of  Isabella,  summoned  her  maid,  Bianca.  While 
they  were  discussing  the  strange  events  of  the  day,  they  heard 
singing  in  the  unused  room  beneath  them.  Opening  her  win- 
dow, Matilda  called  down,  and  a  voice  implored  that  she  would 
tell  him  whether  it  was  true  that  the  Princess  was  missing  from 
the  castle.  Amazed  at  the  stranger's  audacity,  Matilda  refused 
to  answer,  and  the  clever  Bianca,  who  had  surmised  that  it  was 
no  other  than  the  peasant,  asserted  that  he  was  a  magician,  who 
had  effected  Isabella's  escape.  While  they  were  talking,  a  serv- 
ant came  in  to  say  that  Father  Jerome,  the  chaplain,  had  brought 
word  that  Isabella  had  been  found  in  the  sanctuary.     Manfred 


HORACE   WALPOLE  151 

came  into  Hippolita^s  apartments  as  Father  Jerome  made  his 
disclosures,  and  demanded  that  the  girl  return  to  the  castle  at 
once.  Their  argument  was  so  long  and  heated  that  Hippolita 
withdrew  to  her  oratory  to  pray  to  the  Blessed  Virgin.  When 
she  had  gone,  Manfred  made  known  to  the  friar  his  resolve  to 
divorce  his  wife  and  marry  Isabella,  and  promised  gifts  to  the 
Church  if  his  wishes  were  carried  out.  He  then  tried  to  learn 
from  the  friar  something  concerning  the  youth.  Father  Jerome, 
who  knew  nothing,  but  saw  the  advantage  of  diverting  Manfred 
from  his  present  purposes,  answered  in  a  manner  to  confirm  the 
Prince's  belief  in  some  connection  between  the  peasant  and 
Isabella. 

Manfred  fell  into  a  rage  and  commanded  the  youth  to  be 
brought  before  him.  The  composure  and  bravery  of  the  youth, 
who  would  tell  nothing,  save  that  his  name  was  Theodore,  so 
exasperated  Manfred  that  he  ordered  him  to  be  borne  into  the 
courtyard  and  his  head  to  be  severed  from  his  body.  Theodore 
received  the  sentence  with  resignation,  but  asked  that  a  con- 
fessor be  sent  him,  and  Manfred  granted  the  request,  hoping 
thus  to  learn  his  history. 

Jerome  was  overcome  with  remorse  at  what  his  idle  accusa- 
tion had  brought  about,  and  tried  to  intercede  for  the  boy's 
life.  But  this  was  useless,  and  Theodore  knelt  for  his  last  pray- 
ers. As  he  stooped,  his  shirt  slipped  down  below  his  shoulder 
and  discovered  the  mark  of  a  bloody  arrow. 

"Gracious  Heaven!"  cried  the  holy  man;  "what  do  I  see? 
It  is  my  child!     My  Theodore!" 

The  attendants,  moved  by  the  old  man's  entreaties,  called 
out,  "Spare  him!    Spare  him!" 

"Peace,"  said  Manfred  sternly;  "I  must  know  now,  ere  I 
am  disposed  to  pardon." 

"He  is  my  lawful  son,"  said  the  friar,  "and  Sicily  can  boast 
few  houses  more  ancient  than  Falconara." 

Manfred,  relenting,  promised  him  the  life  of  his  son  on  con- 
dition that  he  would  comply  with  his  demands. 

Just  then  the  trampling  of  horses  was  heard,  and  a  brazen 
trumpet  that  hung  outside  the  castle  gate  was  suddenly  sounded. 
At  the  same  instant  the  plumes  on  the  mysterious  helmet  nodded 
three  times  as  if  bowed  by  some  invisible  wearer.    At  Manfred's 


/ 


152  THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO 

command,  the  friar  tore  himself  from  his  son  and  demanded  who 
was  without. 

"A  herald,"  was  the  answer,  ''from  the  Knight  of  the  Gigan- 
tic Saber,  and  I  must  speak  with  the  usurper  of  Otranto." 

"Who  dares  to  question  my  title?"  cried  Manfred.  "Go 
to  your  convent,  friar,  and  prepare  for  the  Princess's  return. 
Your  son  shall  be  a  hostage.  I  will  meet  this  presumptuous 
herald  myself."  Turning  to  the  new  arrival,  he  said:  ''Well, 
what  wouldst  thou  with  me?" 

"I  come,"  he  replied,  "from  the  Knight  of  the  Gigantic  Sa- 
ber, to  demand  in  the  name  of  Frederick,  Marquis  of  Vicenza, 
Isabella,  his  daughter,  whom  thou  during  his  absence  hast  got 
into  thy  power  by  bribing  her  guardians;  thou  shalt  also  sur- 
render the  principality  of  Otranto,  which  thou  hast  usurped  from 
Lord  Frederick,  the  nearest  of  blood  to  the  last  rightful  lord, 
Alfonso  the  Good.  If  thou  dost  not  comply,  he  defies  thee  to 
single  combat  to  the  last  extremity." 

On  being  told  that  the  knight  was  not  far  distant,  Manfred, 
who  was  well  aware  of  the  truth  of  the  statement,  asked  of  the 
herald  that  he  might  hold  some  converse  with  his  master. 

When  Jerome  returned  to  the  convent  he  found  the  monks 
deeply  stirred  by  a  false  report  of  Hippolita's  death.  Isabella 
had  also  heard  the  news  and  was  not  to  be  found.  Meanwhile 
Manfred  had  opened  his  gates  to  receive  the  stranger  knight, 
who  entered  silently  with  his  train,  preceded  by  a  hundred  men 
bearing  an  enormous  sword.  As  the  weapon  was  borne  into 
the  court  the  plumes  on  the  enchanted  helmet  again  waved  in 
the  same  extraordinary  way  as  before.  Scorning  to  betray  his 
courage,  the  Prince  bade  his  guests  alight,  saying:  "To-morrow 
thou  shalt  have  a  fair  field,  and  Heaven  defend  the  juster 
side." 

Suddenly  the  gigantic  sword  burst  from  the  supporters  and, 
falling  to  the  ground  opposite  the  helmet,  remained  immovable, 
As  soon  as  his  guests  were  properly  disposed  of  for  the  night. 
Manfred  sought  an  interview  with  the  chief  knight.  Taking 
him  one  side,  he  told  him  of  his  position  with  regard  to  his  wife 
and  the  advantages  to  accrue  to  both  houses  from  his  marriage 
with  Isabella.  While  they  were  talking,  Jerome  called  the 
Prince  outside  to  tell  him  of  Isabella's  disappearance.    The 


HORACE  WALPOLE  153 

principal  stranger,  hearing  the  controversy,  rushed  to  the  door 
and  said: 

"Thou  traitor  prince!    Isabella  shall  be  found.'^ 

With  that  he  called  for  his  attendants  and  ran  out  to  search 
for  the  Princess.  Manfred  ordered  all  his  servants  to  scour  the 
country,  thus  leaving  the  peasant  unguarded. 

Matilda,  perceiving  this  opportunity,  unbolted  Theodore's 
door  and  bade  him  make  good  use  of  his  liberty.  She  then 
conducted  him  to  her  father's  armory  and,  having  fitted  him  with 
a  complete  suit,  told  him  to  seek  the  caverns  that  reached  to  the 
seacoast  and  there  hide  till  he  could  get  aboard  a  passing 
vessel. 

Theodore  had  not  penetrated  far  in  the  cavern  before  he 
heard  a  step  fleeing  from  him,  which  he  overtook  just  as  a 
woman  fell  breathless  at  his  feet.  Again  he  was  fated  to  be 
Isabella's  deliverer.  He  bore  her  farther  within,  to  escape  the 
danger  of  pursuit,  but,  hearing  a  call,  he  rushed  to  the  mouth  of 
the  cave,  where  he  found  the  stranger  knight.  Thinking  him  to 
be  a  retainer  of  Manfred,  he  engaged  him  in  mortal  combat,  and 
not  till  the  knight  fell  did  Theodore  know  who  was  his  foe. 
Recovering  his  speech,  he  begged  that  Isabella  be  called  to  him. 

"Art  thou  Isabella  of  Vicenza?"  he  asked,  struggling  for 
breath. 

"I  am,"  said  she. 

"Then  thou  seest  thy  father.  I  am  Frederick.  I  came  to 
deliver  thee,  but  it  will  not  be." 

The  wounded  knight  was  borne  to  the  castle,  and,  to  the  re- 
lief of  all,  the  surgeons  declared  his  w^ounds  not  serious.  Hip- 
polita  and  Matilda  cared  for  him  most  tenderly,  and  not  insen- 
sible to  their  courtesy,  he  informed  them  of  his  stor}^ 

He  told  them  that  while  a  prisoner  to  the  infidels  he  had 
dreamed  of  his  daughter  and  had  been  led  to  a  wood  near  Joppa. 
Upon  his  release  he  sought  the  spot  and  found  a  dying  hermit, 
who  directed  him  to  a  certain  tree.  Six  feet  beneath  the  earth 
he  had  discovered  the  enormous  saber  bearing  these  lines  : 

Where'er  a  casque  that  suits  this  sword  is  found 
With  perils  is  thy  daughter  compassed  round; 
Alfonso's  blood  alone  can  save  the  maid 
And  quiet  a  long  restless  prince's  shade. 


154  THE   CASTLE   OF   OTRANTO 

When  Manfred  entered  the  room  and  approached  the  bed  of 
the  wounded  man  he  cried  out  in  terror  that  he  saw  a  specter 
that  was  no  other  than  Alfonso.  HippoHta  sought  to  pacify 
him  and  declared  it  was  only  Theodore,  who  bore  a  striking  re- 
semblance to  that  effigy.  Manfred  then  recovered  himself  and 
turned  his  wrath  upon  Jerome  for  assisting  in  the  youth's  re- 
lease. Theodore  pleaded  so  fervently  for  his  father  that  Man- 
fred bade  him  rise  and  tell  his  story. 

At  the  age  of  five  Theodore,  with  his  mother,  had  been  sold  as 
captives  in  Algiers,  and  on  her  death  she  had  bound  upon  his 
arm  the  statement  that  he  was  the  son  of  the  Count  of  Falconara. 
When  he  had  effected  his  escape  he  sought  his  family  home, 
only  to  find  it  in  ruins  and  to  learn  that  his  father  was  in  a  re- 
ligious house  near  Naples.  Thus  in  now  finding  his  father  his 
joy  was  complete,  and  it  was  his  misfortune  to  have  incurred  his 
Highnesses  displeasure.  Manfred  was  appeased,  but  retired 
without  fully  forgiving  the  lad,  who  had  now  made  himself  most 
fascinating  to  both  Matilda  and  Isabella.  Each  girl  suspected 
the  other  of  a  secret  attachment,  but  their  long  friendship  would 
not  suffer  jealousy  to  prevail.  During  their  exchange  of  confi- 
dences Hippolita  entered  and  declared  that  as  she  saw  Heaven 
purposed  the  sword  of  Otranto  should  pass  to  Frederick,  she 
had  proposed  to  Manfred  that  they  give  their  daughter  to  the 
Marquis  and  thus  effect  the  union  of  the  two  houses.  She  her- 
self would  devote  her  life  to  prayer  and  good  works  to  secure 
peace  and  happiness  for  all. 

Meanwhile  Manfred  had  proposed  to  Frederick  the  double 
marriage,  and  had  secured  the  knight's  consent,  provided  Hip- 
polita would  consent  to  the  divorce.  He  then  sought  his  wife, 
who  was  conferring  with  the  friar  in  the  church.  The  friar  be- 
sought her  never  to  consent  to  the  divorce. 

"Audacious  rebel!"  said  Manfred.  "I  have  consulted  with 
Frederick.  He  accepts  Matilda's  hand  and  is  content  to  waive 
his  claim,  unless  I  have  no  male  issue." 

As  he  spoke  these  words,  three  drops  of  blood  fell  from  the 
nose  of  Alfonso's  statue. 

"  Behold  1"  said  the  friar.  "  Mark  this  miraculous  indication 
that  the  blood  of  Alfonso  never  will  mix  with  that  of  Manfred." 
Bidding  an  attendant  watch  the  church,  Manfred  departed  with 


HORACE   WALPOLE  155 

Hippolita.  Every  act  of  the  friar  led  him  to  believe  that  he  was 
privy  to  an  amour  between  Isabella  and  Theodore. 

On  his  return  to  the  castle,  he  called  the  maid  Bianca  and  by 
artful  wiles  led  her  to  talk  of  Theodore ;  sending  her  to  Isabella 
to  learn  exactly  how  she  was  disposed  toward  him,  he  went  in 
to  the  Marquis.  They  had  hardly  begun  to  talk  when  Bianca 
came  rushing  back,  crying  that  on  the  baluster  she  had  seen  the 
mailed  hand  of  the  giant  that  had  frightened  the  attendants 
in  the  gallery.  Manfred  ordered  her  to  cease  her  trifling  and 
begone,  but  Frederick  had  gathered  enough  from  Bianca's  dis- 
course to  persuade  him  that  Heaven  declared  itself  against 
Manfred. 

However,  feeling  an  increase  of  passion  for  Matilda,  Fred- 
erick sought  oul  Hippolita  to  learn  from  her  lips  how  she  stood 
in  regard  to  the  divorce.  Going  to  her  oratory,  he  beheld  a 
person  engaged  in  prayer,  and  as  he  was  about  to  return,  the 
figure  rose.  Excusing  his  interruption,  Frederick  said  he  was 
seeking  the  Lady  Hippolita. 

"Hippolita,"  replied  a  hollow  voice;  "comest  thou  to  this 
castle  to  seek  Hippolita?"  and  then  the  figure,  turning  round, 
revealed  to  Frederick  the  fleshless  jaws  and  empty  sockets  of  a 
skeleton,  wrapped  in  a  hermit's  cowl. 

"Dost  thou  not  remember  the  wood  of  Joppa?"  said  the  ap- 
parition.    "Hast  thou  forgotten  the  buried  saber?" 

"I  have  not,"  said  Frederick;  "but  say,  blest  spirit,  what  is 
thy  errand  to  me?" 

"To  make  thee  forget  Matilda,"  said  the  apparition,  and 
vanished. 

Frederick,  overcome  by  this  interview,  sought  his  own  apart- 
ments and  spurned  Manfred's  invitation  to  spend  the  night  in 
revelry.  That  haughty  Prince,  enraged  by  his  refusal,  withdrew 
in  a  frame  of  mind  capable  of  any  excess.  At  that  moment  the 
spy  he  had  left  at  the  convent  came  to  say  that  Theodore  and 
some  lady  from  the  castle  were  in  conference  at  the  tomb  of 
Alfonso  in  St.  Nicholas's  Church. 

Manfred,  thinking  only  of  Isabella,  repaired  at  once  to  the 
church,  and,  stealing  down  the  aisle,  the  first  words  he  heard  were : 

"Does  it,  alas!  depend  on  me?     Manfred  will  never  permit 


156 


THE   CASTLE   OF  OTRANTO 


"No,  this  shall  prevent  it!"  cried  the  tyrant,  plunging  his 
dagger  into  the  bosom  of  the  person  that  spoke. 

"Ah  me!  I  am  slain,"  cried  Matilda,  sinking. 

Theodore,  rushing  on  the  monster,  would  have  killed  him 
had  not  Matilda  cried  out : 

"Stay  thy  impious  hands!    It  is  my  father." 

Manfred,  finding  his  error,  was  beside  himself,  and  had  not 
the  monks  called  thither  by  the  cries  restrained  him,  he  would 
have  killed  himself.  As  Matilda  lay  dying,  Theodore  begged 
his  father  even  then  to  unite  them  in  marriage,  that  if  not  in 
life  yet  in  death  she  might  be  his.  Frederick  challenged  him 
for  his  pretensions  to  the  hand  of  a  Princess,  but  Theodore  in 
hot-headed  passion  declared  himself  alone  the  rightful  heir  of 
Alfonso  and  Prince  of  Otranto.  Isabella,  perceiving  that  Ma- 
tilda was  failing,  bade  them  all  be  quiet  as  they  listened  to  her 
last  words.  Giving  them  all  her  blessing,  she  struggled  on  to  say: 
"Isabella — ^Theodore — for  my  sake —  Oh!"  and  then  expired. 

Isabella  bore  away  the  afflicted  Hippolita,  and  in  the  middle 
of  the  court  they  met  Manfred,  who  by  the  light  of  the  moon  read 
in  their  countenances  the  news  he  dreaded.  A  clap  of  thunder 
at  that  instant  shook  the  castle,  the  earth  rocked,  and  the  clank- 
ing of  more  than  mortal  armor  resounded.  Theodore  with  the 
others  rushed  into  the  court.  The  walls  of  the  castle  were 
thrown  down,  and  the  form  of  Alfonso  appeared. 

"  Behold  in  Theodore  the  true  heir  of  Alfonso,"  said  the  vis- 
ion, and  accompanied  by  a  clap  of  thunder  it  ascended  toward 
heaven,  where  it  was  received  by  the  form  of  St.  Nicholas. 

Overcome  by  this  evidence  of  Divine  will,  Manfred  now  made 
confession  of  his  usurpation,  and  Jerome  took  up  the  story  to  tell 
of  Alfonso's  marriage  in  Sicily  on  his  way  to  the  Holy  Land. 
His  daughter  was  given  in  marriage  to  Jerome,  then  Prince  of 
Falconara,  and  Theodore's  narrative  had  told  the  rest. 

The  disconsolate  company  retired  to  what  remained  of  the 
castle.  In  the  morning  Manfred,  supported  by  his  affectionate 
wife,  signed  his  abdication,  and  they  betook  themselves  to 
neighboring  convents.  Frederick  offered  his  daughter  to  the 
new  Prince,  but  Theodore  could  not  brook  a  new  love  until, 
after  long  discourses  with  Isabella,  he  saw  that  they  might  share 
their  melancholy  in  the  sorrow  they  both  felt  in  Matilda's  death. 


LEWIS   WALLACE 

(United  States,  182  7-1 905) 
BEN  HUR:  A  TALE   OF  THE   CHRIST   (1880) 

The  popular  success  of  Ben  Hur  far  surpassed  that  of  any  book  of  its 
period.  Its  author  was  ^.Iready  well  known  as  "Lew"  Wallace,  soldier,  states- 
man, and  novelist,  but  his  former  fame  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  immense 
vogue  enjoyed  by  this  novel.  Unlike  many  other  successes,  its  popularity  con- 
tinued year  after  year  until,  twenty  years  after  its  first  appearance,  it  was  so 
strong  that  a  firm  of  theatrical  managers  decided  to  make  it  the  basis  of  a  play 
which  was  produced  with  extraordinary  attention  to  detail,  and  at  a  preliminary 
expenditure  probably  never  before  equaled  in  American  dramatic  history.  Mr. 
William  Young  was  the  author  of  the  dramatic  version,  for  which  incidental 
music  based  on  Eastern  scales  and  developed  to  the  highest  degree  of  artistic 
skill  was  composed  by  Mr.  Edgar  Stillman  Kelley.  The  success  of  the  play 
equaled  that  of  the  novel,  and  both  are  still  alive  in  the  sense  that  the  book  has 
a  steady  sale  and  the  play  is  still  popular.  Book  and  play  bid  fair  to  rival 
Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  in  eternal  interest.  The  story,  while  concerned  almost 
entirely  with  the  fortunes  of  its  hero,  gives  a  vivid  picture  of  life  and  customs, 
and  a  comprehensive  view  of  religious  and  philosophic  thought,  in  Judea  at 
the  beginning  of  the  Christian  era  and  introduces  Jesus  Christ  as  one  of  the 
essential  personages. 


[THAMAR  of  the  House  of  Hur,  a  Prince  of  Jeru- 
salem and  the  richest  merchant  of  his  time,  had 
a  son,  Judah,  who  was  born  about  three  years 
before  the  birth  of  Jesus.  The  child's  most  inti- 
mate playmate  was  Messala,  two  years  his  senior, 
son  of  a  high  Roman  official  stationed  at  Jeru- 
salem. When  Judah  Ben  Hur  was  eleven  years 
old  Messala  went  to  Rome  to  finish  his  education. 
He  was  absent  five  years,  but  Ben  Hur's  affec- 
tion for  him  persisted  during  the  interval,  and  as  soon  as  he  heard 
of  his  friend's  return  he  went  to  see  him.  He  found  Messala 
no  longer  an  ingenuous  boy.  Instead,  he  beheld  a  Roman  pa- 
trician, arrogant,  haughty,  contemptuous  of  the  Jew  because 
of  his  inferior  race.  It  was  the  last  meeting  in  friendship  be- 
tween these  two,  for  Messaia's  taunts  and  sneers  touched  the 

157 


158  BEN  HUR 

pride  of  Ben  Hur  to  the  quick  and  aroused  in  him  a  hatred  of  the 
Roman  conqueror  that  became  the  dominating  influence  of  his 
life.  He  took  counsel  with  his  mother  on  the  matter — ^for 
his  father  had  been  a  few  years  dead — and  when  she  understood 
his  purpose  she  gave  her  permission  that  he  should  be  a  soldier. 
Her  only  restriction,  which  harmonized  with  his  hearths  burning 
desire,  was  that  he  should  serve  the  Lord — that  is,  Israel  and 
not  Rome. 

The  next  day  Ben  Hur  and  his  little  sister,  Tirzah,  stood  on 
the  housetop  to  watch  the  Roman  soldiers  escort  Gratus,  the 
new  Procurator,  through  the  city.  The  boy  leaned  over  the 
parapet,  the  better  to  see,  and  a  loose  tile  gave  way  beneath  his 
weight.  Snatching  at  it  to  prevent  it  from  falling  and  hurting 
somebody  in  the  crowded  street,  he  failed  to  grasp  it  and  on  the 
contrary  sent  it  flying  further  from  the  line  of  the  house  wall. 
The  heavy  tile  struck  Gratus  and  sent  him  tumbling  from  his 
horse  to  the  ground,  where  he  lay  apparently  dead.  The  sol- 
diers immediately  covered  him  with  their  shields,  and  measures 
were  taken  to  quell  the  disturbance  that  ensued,  for  the  Jews 
thereabout  supposed,  as  did  the  Romans,  that  there  had  been  a 
deliberate  attempt  to  assassinate  the  representative  of  Rome's 
tyranny.  The  house  of  Hur  was  invaded  by  soldiery  and  all  its 
occupants  were  driven  forth.  Even  Ben  Hur's  mother  and  little 
Tirzah  were  arrested.  It  was  Messala  that  gave  the  order;  it 
was  he  that  denounced  Ben  Hur  as  an  assassin. 

Gratus  suffered  little  from  his  misadventure,  but  without 
even  the  formality  of  a  trial  he  condemned  Ben  Hur  to  the  gal- 
leys. The  Hur  palace  was  sealed,  and  a  placard  was  posted  on 
its  door  proclaiming  it  the  property  of  the  Emperor.  What  be- 
came of  his  sister  and  his  mother  Ben  Hur  knew  not.  He  was 
hurried  under  heavy  guard  to  the  seacoast,  and  but  one  incident 
of  that  toilsome  journey  impressed  itself  indelibly  on  his  mem- 
ory. At  Nazareth  the  legionaries  halted  to  drink  from  a  well. 
Ben  Hur  fell  in  the  dust,  exhausted,  for  he  had  to  make  the 
march  afoot.  His  hands  were  tied  behind  his  back,  and  the 
thong  was  looped  over  the  neck  of  a  horse.  A  crowd  of  curious 
villagers  surrounded  the  party,  and  all  pitied  the  youth,  but  none 
ventured  to  give  him  refreshment,  for  pity  yielded  to  fear  of  the 
hated  soldiers.     Presently  an  elderly  man  and  his  son,  each 


LEWIS  WALLACE  159 

bearing  carpenter's  tools,  came  to  the  well.  The  man  inquired 
about  the  circumstances,  as  others  had  asked,  and  his  brow 
darkened  with  resentment.  His  son  laid  down  his  ax,  went  to 
the  well,  and  took  up  a  pitcher.  His  manner  was  so  uncon- 
cerned and  simple  that,  before  the  guards  could  interfere,  he 
was  giving  the  captive  a  drink  of  water.  They  did  not  inter- 
fere with  him  even  then,  and  it  was  noticeable  that  thereafter  the 
soldiers  treated  Ben  Hur  with  a  semblance  of  consideration. 
It  was  his  first  meeting  with  the  Son  of  Mary,  and  memory  of 
that  youthful  face  glowing  with  compassion  lingered  with  him 
during  all  the  after  years. 

The  average  life  of  a  man  at  the  galleys  was  one  year,  but 
Ben  Hur  was  stronger  than  the  average.  Moreover,  he  was 
shrewd,  and  contrived  to  get  himself  shifted  from  one  side  of 
the  vessel  to  the  other  so  that  the  wear  and  tear  of  the  work 
might  be  distributed  evenly  over  his  body.  Thus  he  became 
the  best  oarsman  in  his  ship,  and  developed  long  arms,  huge 
hands,  and  a  giant's  muscles.  He  attracted  the  attention  of 
Arrius,  who  had  been  sent  to  destroy  a  fleet  of  pirates,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  three  years  Ben  Hur  was  spoken  to  in  a  kindly 
manner.  In  a  battle  with  the  pirates  Arrius's  vessel  was  de- 
stroyed, although  the  victory  was  with  the  Romans.  Ben  Hur 
came  to  the  surface,  after  going  down  with  the  vessel,  and 
grasped  a  large  plank  beside  which  Arrius  himself  came  up. 
The  commander  was  stunned  and  helpless.  The  galley-slave 
kept  him  alive  until  both  were  rescued  by  a  Roman  boat  after 
the  battle.  For  this  service,  and  because  Arrius  had  known 
Ben  Hur's  father,  he  adopted  the  Jew  and  made  him  his  heir. 

Ben  Hur  passed  five  years  in  Rome,  learning  everything  that 
could  be  of  use  to  a  soldier.  Then,  wealthy  by  reason  of  his  in- 
heritance from  Arrius,  who  had  died,  he  set  out  for  the  East  to 
join  an  expedition  against  the  Parthians.  This  he  did,  as  he 
had  studied  in  Rome,  that  he  might  become  perfected  in  war- 
fare with  the  never-forgotten  ambition  to  fight,  and  perhaps  be- 
come a  leader,  in  Judea's  struggle  for  liberation. 

The  expedition  was  to  assemble  at  Antioch,  and,  as  his  vessel 
entered  the  port  of  that  prosperous  city,  Ben  Hur's  attention 
was  attracted  by  ships  coming  in  with  heavy  cargoes  from  dis- 
tant countries.     A  fellow  passenger  told  him  that  they  were 


i6o  BEN  HUR 

part  of  the  great  fleet  of  vessels  belonging  to  Simonides,  the  rich- 
est merchant  in  the  world.  He  was  a  Jew,  in  spite  of  his  Greek 
name,  and  noted  for  his  marvelous  luck;  for  storms  never 
wrecked  his  ships,  marauders  of  the  desert  never  attacked  his 
caravans,  no  venture  ever  failed  to  return  him  a  profit.  Ben 
Hur  listened  to  this  gossip  with  interest  that  he  found  it  difficult 
to  mask,  for  Simonides  had  been  his  father's  steward,  his  slave, 
and  all  he  possessed,  even  his  own  body,  was  according  to  Jew- 
ish law  the  property  of  the  son  of  Hur. 

The  expedition  would  not  be  ready  to  start  for  weeks,  and 
until  then  Ben  Hur  could  have  had  quarters  in  the  citadel  be- 
coming to  the  son  of  a  Roman  patrician.  Thither  he  set  out 
from  the  wharf,  but  when  he  had  gone  part  way  he  ordered  his 
porters  to  turn  about  and  take  him  to  an  inn  near  that  part  of 
the  city  where  he  had  learned  Simonides  lived.  Next  day  early 
he  went  to  see  Simonides.  He  found  him  an  aged  man,  physic- 
ally incapacitated,  and  attended  by  a  daughter,  Esther,  whose 
face  and  demeanor  charmed  the  visitor  at  once.  The  body  of 
Simonides  was  a  wreck  because  he  had  been  subjected  to  the 
severest  torture  at  the  command  of  Gratus  in  the  effort  to  wrest 
from  him  the  money  left  by  Ben  Hur's  father.  According  to 
Jewish  custom,  that  money  was  distributed  about  the  world  in 
the  form  of  bills  of  exchange,  and  Gratus  never  had  been  able 
to  touch  a  denarius  of  it.  It  was  gossiped  that  Simonides  had 
used  his  late  master's  money  as  the  capital  on  which  he  had 
reared  his  immense  fortune.  At  all  events,  he  had  purchased 
liberty  to  trade  from  the  Emperor  himself  and  was  now  safe, 
as  he  thought,  from  further  persecution  by  Gratus. 

Ben  Hur  made  himself  known.  The  aged  merchant  looked 
at  him  calmly  and  acknowledged  that  he  had  known  and  had 
had  business  dealings  with  the  Prince  of  Hur;  but  his  attitude 
was  that  of  an  entire  stranger  to  the  son,  to  whom  he  owed  no 
obligation.  Nevertheless  he  listened  to  Ben  Hur's  story.  The 
young  man  told  it  from  the  beginning,  and  declared  that  the  one 
purpose  of  his  visit  was  to  learn  what  had  been  the  fate  of  his 
mother  and  sister.  Simonides  professed  ignorance  on  this  mat- 
ter and  plainly  intimated  his  doubt  of  Ben  Hur's  story.  He 
asked  for  proofs  of  his  identity,  either  documentary  or  by  the 
word  of  witnesses,  and  the  visitor  could  not  satisfy  him.    It  was 


LEWIS  WALLACE  i6i 

evident  that  Esther  believed  him;  but  nothing  could  avail  against 
the  iron  will  of  her  father,  and  Ben  Hur  departed,  disheartened, 
for  the  love  of  his  mother  and  sister  dwelt  in  his  heart  side  by 
side  with  his  martial  ambition. 

As  soon  as  his  visitor  had  gone  Simonides  summoned  Mal- 
luch,  a  trusted  servant,  and  instructed  him  to  fall  in  with  Ben 
Hur,  lead  him  into  conversation,  study  him  in  every  particular, 
and  make  quick  reports.  So  it  happened  that  as  Ben  Hur  was 
idling  about  the  city,  trying  to  take  an  interest  in  its  sights,  he 
became  acquainted  with  a  good-natured  stranger  who  rambled 
with  him  from  one  place  to  another.  They  visited  the  race- 
course, and  saw  several  chariots,  with  four  horses  yoked  to  each, 
at  practise  for  the  games  that  were  to  be  given  a  week  hence. 
Among  them  were  four  Arabian  bays,  the  owner  of  which.  Sheik 
Ilderim,  was  frantic  because  the  Roman  driver  could  not  manage 
them  efifectively.  Another  four  were  driven  by  a  haughty  young 
Roman,  in  whom  Ben  Hur  recognized  his  former  playfellow, 
and  enemy,  Messala. 

From  the  race-course  Malluch  led  the  stranger  in  Antioch  to 
see  a  well  which  was  reputed  to  have  magic  power.  While  there 
a  camel  bearing  an  aged  Egyptian  and  his  daughter,  the  most 
entrancingly  beautiful  woman  Ben  Hur  ever  had  seen,  paused 
for  refreshment.  The  imgainly  beast  knelt,  but  before  the 
passengers  could  alight  from  the  howdah  or  send  to  the  well  for 
water  Messala  drove  his  chariot  full  tilt  through  the  crowd,  scat- 
tering the  people  right  and  left,  arrogantly  unconcerned  as  to 
their  peril.  Such  was  the  impetus  of  the  four  horses  that  there 
would  have  been  a  collision  with  the  camel,  and  probably  death 
for  its  riders,  had  not  Ben  Hur  leaped  to  the  horses'  bridles  and 
with  his  giant  strength  swerved  them  aside.  The  chariot  was 
nearly  upset,  but  Messala  seemed  to  take  the  incident  carelessly, 
and  drove  away,  after  apologizing  to  the  Egyptian  and  uttering 
many  fulsome  compliments  upon  the  beauty  of  his  daughter. 

Then  Ben  Hur  conceived  the  desire  to  humiliate  Messala 
and  wreck  him  financially.  Guided  by  Malluch,  he  sought 
Sheik  Ilderim  and  offered  himself  as  driver  for  the  Arabian 
bays.  The  Sheik  accepted  him  after  he  had  seen  Ben  Hur 
exercise  the  horses  for  an  hour.  It  was  evident  that  here  was 
one  who  understood  horses,  and  the  desert  chieftain  began  to 

A.D.,   VOL.   XVn. — II 


i62  BEN  HUR 

look  forward  with  confidence  to  the  outcome  of  the  contest.  As 
he  needed  all  time  possible  for  practise,  Ben  Hur  took  up  his 
quarters  temporarily  with  the  Sheik,  to  whom  presently  came 
the  Egyptian  whose  life  had  been  endangered  by  Messala's 
reckless  driving.  This  was  Balthasar,  one  of  the  three  wise 
men  who  had  journeyed  from  afar  on  the  occasion  of  the  birth 
of  Jesus.  From  his  lips  Ben  Hur  heard  the  mystic,  impressive 
old  story  of  the  Voice  that  had  called  three  men  from  different 
quarters  of  the  world,  bidding  them  meet  in  the  desert;  of 
the  star  that  had  guided  their  journey  and  brought  them  to  the 
manger  in  which  lay,  newly  born,  He  who  was  to  be  King  of  the 
Jews.  Ben  Hur  thrilled  at  the  narrative,  for  it  pointed  unerring- 
ly to  the  realization  of  the  age-long  dream  of  the  Jews,  the  com- 
ing of  a  Messiah.  His  interpretation  was  that  of  most  men 
who  had  heard  the  tale  (and  there  were  many  in  Judea) :  that 
the  Messiah  would  be  a  temporal  ruler,  under  whose  leadership 
the  country  would  not  only  be  wrested  from  Roman  tyranny  but 
come  to  have  dominion  over  all  the  world.  He  counted  the 
years  since  Balthasar's  wonderful  experience;  the  babe  of  that 
period  would  now  be  in  the  prime  of  manhood;  his  term  of  study 
and  preparation  must  be  well-nigh  concluded;  the  time  for 
action  must  be  at  hand!  Ah,  what  joy  to  devote  the  knowledge 
and  skill  learned  of  hated  Rome  to  such  a  leader!  Ben  Hur 
hungered  for  opportunity  to  serve  Him. 

With  Balthasar  came  his  beautiful  daughter,  Iras,  who 
sought  out  the  yoimg  man  that  had  rescued  her  and  coquetted 
with  him  until  the  vision  of  sweet  Esther  faded  from  his  mind, 
and  even  his  dreams  of  conquest  and  national  liberation  almost 
took  second  place. 

Malluch  made  his  reports  to  Simonides,  on  the  strength  of 
which  Ben  Hur  and  Sheik  Ilderim  were  summoned  to  the  mer- 
chant's house.  There,  in  the  presence  of  the  Sheik  and  of 
Esther,  Simonides  acknowledged  himself  and  his  daughter  as 
slaves  of  Ben  Hur  and  proffered  an  accounting  of  the  business 
that  had  been  done  on  the  capital  left  by  the  Prince  of  Hur, 
which  showed  that  the  son,  Ben  Hur,  was  the  richest  man  in 
the  world.  Ben  Hur  immediately  relinquished  all  the  property 
except  the  one  hundred  and  twenty  talents  that  represented  his 
father's  capital,  which  had  served  Simonides  in  the  building  of 


LEWIS   WALLACE  163 

his  own  fortune ;  and  he  also  declared  Simonides  and  his  daugh- 
ter free.  Then  it  appeared  that  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  free 
them,  for  they  were  in  the  kind  of  bondage  that  Jewish  law  made 
eternal.  A  compromise,  so  to  call  it,  was  effected,  by  which 
Simonides  was  to  act  as  Ben  Hur^s  steward.  He  was  to  conduct 
the  business  as  theretofore,  and  nothing  was  to  be  said  about 
his  real  relation  to  the  owner. 

There  was  a  special  reason  for  this  beyond  Ben  Hur's  mag- 
nanimity, for  it  had  been  discovered  that  Messala  had  recognized 
Ben  Hur  and  was  plotting  to  put  him  out  of  the  way.  Sheik 
Ilderim's  desert  riders  had  intercepted  a  letter  from  Messala  to 
Gratus  which  showed  two  things  of  the  utmost  importance: 
first,  that  Messala  and  Gratus  had  sent  Ben  Hur  to  the  galleys, 
believing  that  he  would  die  at  the  labor  and  that  thus  they 
would  be  unimpeded  in  possessing  themselves  of  his  property; 
and  second,  that  Ben  Hur's  mother  and  sister  had  been  dealt 
with  in  a  way  that  justified  hope  that  they  might  still  be  alive. 
*'  Thou  wilt  remember  what  thou  didst  with  the  mother  and  the 
sister,''  wrote  Messala,  and  then  proceeded  to  ask  whether  they 
were  still  alive.  It  was  apparent  that  Messala  would  not  com- 
mit any  overt  act  against  Ben  Hur  until  he  should  have  had  a 
reply  from  Gratus;  and  as  he  had  sent  a  duplicate  letter  by  sea 
it  was  reckoned  that  he  could  not  get  an  answer  within  seven 
days.  Before  then  the  races  would  be  run,  and  it  was  decided 
that  after  that  Ben  Hur  should  hide  himself  in  the  desert  for  a 
time  in  order  to  circumvent  Messala's  designs  against  him. 

There  was  yet  another  reason  for  this  course.  At  the  house 
of  Simonides  there  was  again  talk  of  Balthasar's  story  of  the 
Messiah.  Simonides  believed  the  tale;  he,  too,  looked  for  a 
temporal  ruler,  and  was  eager  to  devote  his  immense  fortune  to 
equipping  an  army  to  fight  under  the  new  king.  Pending  the 
time  when  the  promised  ruler  should  announce  himself,  it  was 
agreed  that  Ben  Hur  should  devote  his  energy  to  discovering 
what  had  become  of  his  mother  and  sister. 

As  the  day  of  the  games  approached,  and  wagers  were  laid 
on  the  several  contests,  none  ventured  to  bet  against  Messala 
in  the  chariot-race,  although  he  and  his  followers  offered  odds 
of  four,  five,  and  sometimes  six  to  one.  Ben  Hur  could  not  be 
content  merely  to  humiliate  his  enemy.    The  Prince's  property 


i64  BEN  HUR 

in  Jerusalem  had  been  confiscated,  nominally  to  the  Emperor, 
but  actually — as  the  intercepted  letter  proved — to  the  private 
uses  of  Gratus  and  Messala  It  was  Ben  Hur's  ambition  to 
get  that  property  back,  not  for  the  sake  of  the  money  itself,  for 
he  had  more  than  plenty,  but  in  order  to  ruin  the  despoiler. 
Accordingly  he  and  Simonides  supplied  a  loyal  Jew,  Sanballat, 
with  abundant  £unds  and  laid  a  trap  for  Messala.  On  the  very 
eve  of  the  contest  Sanballat  sought  Messala  and  his  boon  com- 
panions and  offered  to  wager  that  the  Arabian  four  would  win. 
The  Romans  jumped  at  the  chance  to  fill  their  pockets,  and 
Sanballat  shrewdly  teased  them  into  laying  odds  at  six  to  one. 
Messala  consented,  whereupon  Sanballat  calmly  made  his  stake 
twenty  talents,  which  called  on  his  adversary  to  lay  one  hundred 
and  twenty,  a  sum  far  in  excess  of  Messala's  whole  fortune. 
Thus  was  a  double  stroke  accomplished,  for  Messala  was 
humiliated  by  being  compelled  to  confess  that  he  could  not 
meet  such  a  wager,  and  he  was  also  compelled  to  risk  all  he  had, 
thirty  talents,  against  Sanballat's  six. 

The  concourse  of  people  assembled  to  see  the  games  was 
greater  than  any  similar  crowd  that  could  be  gathered  in  the 
world  except  Rome.  The  chariot-race  came  last.  There  were 
six  contestants,  of  whom  Ben  Hur  was  the  favorite  on  account 
of  the  wide-spread  hatred  of  the  Romans.  But  Messala  was 
not  only  confident,  he  was  determined  to  win,  and  at  the  very 
beginning  hesitated  not  to  stoop  to  foul  play.  When  came  the 
signal  to  start  he  drove  so  recklessly  to  the  inner  barrier,  which 
gave  him  the  advantage  at  the  curves,  that  he  overturned  one 
of  the  rival  chariots,  and  its  driver  was  borne  dying  from  the 
arena.  All  Ben  Hur's  skill  was  required  to  guide  his  steeds  so 
that  his  own  chariot  should  not  be  engaged  in  the  collision,  and 
as  it  was  he  saved  disaster  at  the  expense  of  losing  distance. 
But  his  Arabians  were  so  far  superior  to  the  other  fours,  except 
possibly  Messala's,  that  he  soon  passed  into  second  place,  and 
then  the  race  was  between  the  Roman  and  the  Jew. 

The  course  was  seven  times  round  the  arena.  At  first  Ben 
Hur  contented  himself  with  hugging  his  rival  close,  but  at  a 
turn  during  the  first  time  round  Messala  again  resorted  to  foul 
play,  this  time  unmistakable  and  flagrant.  Standing  suddenly 
side  wise  in  his  chariot,  he  whirled  his  long  whip  and  brought  it 


LEWIS  WALLACE  165 

down  with  furious  force  across  the  backs  of  the  Arabians. 
These  steeds  had  been  reared  and  trained  in  gentleness.  Never 
before  had  a  lash  touched  them.  They  were  startled,  terrified 
by  the  pain,  and  the  race  would  have  been  lost  to  the  Jew  then 
and  there  but  for  the  effect  of  his  three  years  in  the  galleys.  His 
great  hands  of  iron,  his  arms  and  back  of  steel,  his  mighty  legs 
inured  to  more  violent  motion  than  the  swaying  of  a  chariot, 
all  stood  him  in  good  stead;  and,  while  the  multitude  ceased  to 
breathe  with  excitement,  for  the  terrible  emergency  was  clear 
to  every  spectator,  he  firmly  curbed  the  frantic  beasts,  brought 
them  again  into  harmonious  order,  and  resumed  his  place  just 
behind  the  Roman.  There  he  stayed  until  the  seventh  round 
was  half  run.  Then,  at  the  final  turn,  he  urged  his  four  to  their 
utmost,  and  even  though  he  lost  distance  in  trying  to  pass  at  a 
curve  his  horses  came  abreast  of  the  Roman  chariot,  little  by 
little  they  drew  past,  and  then,  just  as  the  chariots  were  abreast, 
Ben  Hur  deftly  veered  his  steeds  a  bit,  his  wheel  struck  the  hub 
of  Messala's  outer  wheel,  the  hub  broke,  and  the  Roman's 
chariot  was  an  instant  wreck.  Messala  was  thrown  under  the 
heels  of  his  prancing  horses  and  received  such  injuries  that  he 
was  crippled  for  life  worse  than  Simonides  had  been  by  the 
tortures  of  Gratus.  A  feeble  protest  was  made  by  the  losers  of 
wagers  on  the  Roman,  but  the  judges  waved  them  aside,  pointing 
to  the  obvious  fact  that  Messala  had  been  guilty  of  foul  play  early 
in  the  race. 

Ben  Hur  steadfastly  refused  the  extravagant  rewards  that 
Sheik  Ilderim  pressed  upon  him,  but  in  accordance  with  his 
plan,  disappeared  with  him  in  the  desert  until  he  could  safely 
go  to  Jerusalem  and  search  for  his  mother  and  Tirzah. 

Meantime  Gratus  was  superseded  by  Pontius  Pilate.  In 
the  course  of  inspections  incidental  to  his  coming  to  the  governor- 
ship, a  secret  cell  was  discovered  in  the  subterranean  dungeons 
of  the  city  where  Ben  Hur's  mother  and  her  daughter  had  been 
cast  at  the  time  of  the  seizure  of  their  property.  Gratus  had  used 
the  utmost  precaution  to  prevent  knowledge  of  this  cell  from 
being  known  to  anybody,  even  to  the  dungeon -keepers.  The 
women  had  been  fed  by  a  prisoner  whose  tongue  had  been  torn 
out,  and  who  occupied  a  known  cell  adjoining  theirs.  Accord- 
ing to  oflacial  record,  three  men  were  confined  in  his  cell,  and 


i66  BEN  HUR 

food  for  three  was  passed  in  daily.  Two  portions  he  passed 
through  a  crevice  to  the  unfortunate  women.  For  years  they 
had  lived  in  darkness  and  had  contracted  leprosy.  When  their 
plight  was  discovered  by  the  successors  of  the  Gratus  regime, 
the  women  were  cast  adrift,  their  only  refuge  then  being  the 
caves  and  tombs  of  a  hillside  outside  the  city,  where  lepers  were 
sent  to  die. 

On  their  mournful  way  through  the  city  they  saw  Ben  Hur 
sleeping  at  the  gate  of  their  former  home,  but  they  did  not 
waken  him.  One  sadly  joyful  look,  and  they  went  on,  believing 
that  it  would  be  less  sorrow  to  him  if  he  thought  them  dead  than 
to  know  that  they  were  lepers.  They  were  discovered  by  an  old 
servant  who  took  them  food  daily,  but  who  was  enjoined  by  the 
most  sacred  oaths  from  ever  revealing  their  identity.  So,  when 
Ben  Hur  presently  came  to  know  of  the  discharge  of  his  dear 
ones  from  the  dungeon,  and  that  they  were  lepers,  he  was  never- 
theless utterly  unable  to  ascertain  what  had  become  of  them. 
He  had  to  conclude  that  they  were  dead,  and  thenceforth  he  gave 
his  whole  attention  to  recruiting  an  army  for  the  future  King  of 
the  Jews. 

His  recruits  were  mainly  Galileans.  He  chose  those  who 
had  capacity  for  leadership  and  taught  them  the  Roman  drill. 
Each  of  his  captains  chose  companies,  who  drilled  in  the  lava- 
beds  far  from  human  habitation.  Simonides  furnished  arms 
and  accouterments,  and  in  the  course  of  time  fully  three  legions 
were  armed  and  disciplined,  waiting  only  for  the  Messiah  to 
proclaim  himself  to  rush  to  battle  under  Ben  Hur's  generalship. 

At  this  time  the  Nazarene  was  teaching  and  preaching 
throughout  Judea,  and  the  fame  of  his  words  and  deeds  had 
spread  far.  Already  there  were  those  who  believed  him  to  be 
the  promised  Messiah.  Of  these  was  Balthasar,  whom  Ben 
Hur  encountered  in  the  desert  on  his  way  to  see  in  manhood 
Him  whom  he  had  worshiped  as  a  babe.  Ben  Hur  went  with 
him  and  was  present  at  that  memorable  scene  when  John  the 
Baptist  pointed  to  Jesus,  saying,  ^'Behold  the  Lamb  of  God, 
which  taketh  away  the  sins  of  the  world!" 

The  eager  warrior  was  disappointed,  mystified,  and  yet 
fascinated.  He  recognized  the  Nazarene  as  the  one  who  had 
given  him  drink  when  he  was  a  captive;  he. was  stirred  by  his 


LEWIS  WALLACE  167 

preaching;  but  he  failed  to  perceive  the  signs  of  dominating 
force  which  promised  a  great  ruler.  The  manifestations  of 
Divine  power  were  so  convincing,  however,  that  Ben  Hur  felt 
he  must  wait  until  such  good  time  as  the  Master  should  pro- 
claim Himself.  Meantime  he  followed  Jesus  from  place  to 
place,  studying  Him,  observing  the  miracles,  becoming  more 
and  more  eager  to  fight  for  this  man,  though  still  unpersuaded 
by  the  good  Balthasar  that  the  kingdom  of  Jesus  was  not  of  this 
world.  He  was  one  of  the  multitude  that  at  last  went  up  to 
Jerusalem  with  Jesus,  and  as  they  passed  the  abode  of  the  lepers, 
he  saw  two  women,  almost  dead  of  the  repulsive  disease,  throw 
themselves  in  the  Master's  way  and  beseech  His  mercy.  Ben 
Hur  saw  the  simple  rite  by  which  the  Master  pronounced  them 
clean,  and,  studious  ever  of  results,  he  lingered  to  observe  the 
effect.  Before  his  astonished  and  exultant  eyes  he  beheld  these 
pitiable  wretches  transformed  to  his  sister  and  his  mother! 

The  law  required  that  persons  cured  of  leprosy  should  wait 
without  the  walls  nine  days  for  inspection  before  permission 
could  be  granted  to  enter  and  go  to  their  homes.  So  it  came  to 
pass  that,  devoted  to  the  comfort  of  his  mother  and  his  sister 
during  these  days,  Ben  Hur  was  not  a  witness  to  those  scenes 
in  which  Jesus  alienated  the  expectant  and  uncomprehending 
multitude  by  refusing  to  assert  temporal  power.  Ben  Hur  did 
not  realize  that  the  multitude  had  turned  to  a  hostile  rabble 
until  Jesus  was  brought  forth  for  execution.  Then  he  tried 
vainly  to  rally  his  Galileans  and  force  a  rescue.  All  but  a  pair 
of  the  recruits  had  joined  the  rabble. 

Simonides  and  Balthasar  were,  with  Ben  Hur,  witnesses  of 
the  crucifixion,  and  at  the  end  Simonides  himself  was  converted 
from  his  belief  that  the  Messiah  would  be  a  temporal  ruler. 
Balthasar  was  so  overcome  that  his  spirit  fled  before  the  earth- 
quake came  to  terrify  the  executioners. 

Some  years  after  the  majestic  tragedy  at  Golgotha,  Ben  Hur 
was  happy  with  Esther  and  their  children;  Simonides  still  clung 
to  life  and  devoted  his  vast  wealth  to  the  Christian  cause,  for 
Nero  was  then  beginning  to  persecute  the  Christians  in  Rome,  and 
Ben  Hur  went  thither,  with  his  own  money  and  that  of  Simon- 
ides, to  make  safe  places  for  Christian  worship  under  the  streets 
and  buildings  of  the  Eternal  City,  thus  beginning  the  catacombs. 


MARY   AUGUSTA   WARD 

(MRS.    HUMPHRY   WARD) 

(Tasmania,  1851) 

LADY  ROSE'S  DAUGHTER   (1903) 

The  character  of  the  heroine  of  this  novel,  Julie  Le  Breton,  is  confessedly 
founded  upon  that  of  a  historic  personage,  Julie  Jeanne  Eleonore  de  Lespinass'e 
(1732-1776).  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse  was  the  illegitimate  daughter  of 
the  Countess  of  Albon.  She  was  the  companion  of  the  blind  Madame  du 
Defifand,  famous  for  her  caustic  wit,  and  with  her  presided  over  a  celebrated 
literary  salon.  After  ten  years  of  this  companionship  Mademoiselle  Lespinasse 
seceded  and  established  a  rival  salon.  Soon  after  this  she  began  writing  a 
series  of  ardent  letters,  the  earlier  ones  to  a  Spaniard,  the  Marquis  de  More, 
and  the  later  to  a  Frenchman,  Count  de  Guibert.  The  widow  of  De  Guibert 
published  them  a  quarter  of  a  century  after  the  writer's  death  in  order  that 
their  fine  feeling  and  literary  art  might  not  be  lost  to  the  world.  The  career  of 
Julie  de  Lespinasse  is  the  subject  of  a  work  by  Camilla  Jebb,  entitled  A  Star 
of  the  Salons, 

JHE  Lady  Rose  was  Lord  Lackington's  favorite 
daughter.  Her  mother  was  dead,  and  her  father, 
from  a  mistaken  sense  of  duty,  arranged  for  her 
at  an  early  age  a  marriage  which  was  certain  to 
result  in  disaster.  She  was  a  woman  of  strong  in- 
tellect and  sensitive  emotive  nature,  and  her  mind 
and  soul  were  in  continual  revolt  against  the 
hypocrisies  and  tyrannies  of  the  world  of  society. 
Her  husband  was  an  army  officer,  a  slave  to  con- 
vention, and  a  bitter  opponent  of  radicalism  of  every  sort. 

The  misery  of  her  married  life  at  last  became  intolerable, 
and  Lady  Rose  ran  away  with  a  man  whom  her  husband  had  not 
unjustly  characterized  as  an  ''atheist"  and  an  "agitator."  The 
husband  vindictively  refused  to  sue  for  a  divorce,  in  order  to 
force  Marriott  Dalrymple  and  Rose  Chantry  to  continue  in  an 
illicit  relation,  and  to  render  illegitimate  any  children  they  might 

168 


I 


MARY  AUGUSTA  WARD  169 

have.  Rose's  father  pleaded  with  her  to  give  up  her  companion, 
but  this  she  refused  to  do,  and  thereupon  he  renounced  her. 

Dalrymple  and  his  mistress  went  to  hve  in  a  small  country- 
house  near  Bruges,  in  Belgium.  He  was  an  author  of  radical 
books  which  people  talked  about  rather  than  purchased.  His 
income,  though  small,  sufficed  for  their  material  needs.  They 
were  happy  together  in  their  intellectual  and  artistic  life,  and  in 
the  society  of  the  country  folk  about  them.  Lady  Rose  suffered 
at  first  from  the  breach  with  her  father,  and  separation  from  a 
younger  sister  whom  she  greatly  loved.  Then  a  daughter  was 
born  who  occupied  so  much  of  her  mind  and  heart  that  little 
space  therein  was  left  for  idle  yearning. 

Little  Julie  grew  to  womanhood  in  this  atmosphere  of  in- 
tellectual and  moral  freedom.  On  the  fact  and  the  cause  of 
her  illegitimacy  being  explained  to  her  she  gloried  in  her  parents' 
heroism,  especially  her  mother's.  When  Julie  was  fourteen 
years  of  age  Dalrymple  died,  and  thereafter  Lady  Rose  was 
very  unhappy.  The  ignominy  of  their  position,  especially  the 
daughter's,  began  to  prey  upon  her  mind.  She  thought  long- 
ingly of  her  father,  now  an  old  man,  living  alone  in  his  great 
house  in  London,  for  the  little  sister,  growing  to  womanhood, 
had  married  a  soldier,  a  man  of  the  same  stamp  as  her  own  hus- 
band, and  had  gone  to  India,  and  was  now  the  mother  of  a  girl 
ten  years  younger  than  Julie. 

Knowing  that  any  show  of  repentance  on  her  part  would 
bring  her  father's  forgiveness  for  herself  and  her  daughter, 
Lady  Rose  proposed  to  Julie  that  they  go  to  London  and  seek 
reconciliation  with  him,  but  this  the  proud  girl  refused  to  con- 
sider. At  her  birth  Lord  Lackington  had  settled  an  annuity 
of  a  himdred  pounds  upon  Julie,  in  sign,  as  it  were,  that  he  had 
thereby  satisfied  all  obligations.  Upon  this  income  Julie  de- 
clared that  they  would  live  rather  than  that  her  mother  be  sub- 
jected to  humiliation,  and  her  dear  father's  honor  be  impugned. 

The  desire  to  renew  old  home  ties,  together  with  concern 
about  her  daughter's  future,  caused  Lady  Rose  to  fall  into  a  de- 
cline, from  which  she  shortly  died.  Before  the  end  her  childish 
faith  returned  (Julie  ascribed  this  to  a  failing  mind)  and  she 
placed  her  daughter  in  a  convent  school,  charging  her  to  remain 
there  as  a  docile  pupil  for  at  least  four  years.    Out  of  love  for 


170  LADY  ROSE'S  DAUGHTER 

her  mother  Julie  faithfully  fulfilled  the  injunction,  and  thereby 
learned  the  first  great  lesson  of  that  life  which  her  mother  had  fled 
— hypocritical  conformity.  She  even  permitted  herself  to  be 
baptized  into  the  Catholic  faith,  and  made  her  premihre  com- 
munion in  that  church. 

At  the  expiration  of  the  period  to  which  she  had  pledged  her- 
self, Julie  went  out  into  the  world  with  the  blessing  of  the  convent 
sisters,  to  make  her  way  as  a  governess  or  a  companion.  With 
a  secret  purpose  she  changed  the  name  of  Dalrymple,  by  which 
she  was  known,  to  that  of  her  old  nurse,  Le  Breton,  and  sought 
for  employment  that  would  take  her  to  England.  This  she 
easily  procured,  for  at  the  convent  she  had  become  adept  in 
managing  both  people  and  situations.  In  England  she  ad- 
vanced from  one  place  to  another  until,  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
eight,  she  had  become  the  companion  of  Lady  Henry  Seath- 
waite,  the  widow  of  her  mother's  uncle. 

Lady  Henry  was  one  of  the  most  brilliant  women  in  Eng- 
land. She  had  formed  a  salon  where  the  leading  statesmen  of 
the  country  and  distinguished  foreigners  were  wont  to  gather. 
But  as  age  stole  upon  her  she  began  gradually  to  lose  her  sight. 
Embittered  by  this  misfortune,  her  wit  took  on  the  biting  edge 
of  cynicism  and  even  sarcasm,  and  her  visitors,  made  uncom- 
fortable thereby,  began  to  fall  away. 

It  was  Julie  Le  Breton,  the  companion  she  had  chosen  to 
read  to  her  and  act  as  her  social  secretary,  who  brought  them 
all  back,  and  made  "Lady  Henry's  days"  the  most  distinguished 
social  functions  in  London.  Julie  equaled  Lady  Henry  in  in- 
telligence and  far  surpassed  her  in  tact.  The  observing  even 
though  purblind  old  woman  once  remarked  to  her  old  friend 
Sir  Wilfred  Bury :  "  Julie  has  the  most  extraordinary  gift  of  con- 
versation; she  knows  how  to  keep  up  the  ball.  You  make  a 
brilliant  stroke;  she  applauds,  and  in  a  moment  she  has  ar- 
ranged you  another — ^yet  she  never  says  a  thing  that  you  want 
to  remember." 

It  was  the  gall  of  bitterness  to  the  old  woman  to  realize  that 
her  beautiful,  sympathetic  young  companion  and  not  herself 
formed  the  attraction  of  her  gatherings,  and  in  time  she  became 
jealous  of  Julie.  She  feared  that  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  was 
accumulating  a  social  potentiality  with  which  she  might  open  at 


MARY  AUGUSTA  WARD  171 

any  moment  a  salon  of  her  own;  indeed,  she  suspected  her  of 
conducting  some  political  intrigue  in  her  present  position. 

Lady  Henry  was  in  a  dilemma.  To  retain  Julie  meant  the 
virtual  conversion  of  *'Lady  Henry's  days"  to  *' Mademoiselle 
Le  Breton's."  Yet  to  dismiss  her  would  be  to  deprive  herself 
of  the  services  of  a  companion  who  anticipated  her  every  wish, 
and  who  selected  as  well  as  read  the  books  and  articles  that 
pleased  her  with  an  intelligence  that  is  rarely  found  among 
hirelings.  So  Lady  Henry  waited  with  as  much  patience  as  she 
could  command  the  deciding  event  which  she  foresaw  was 
impending. 

Julie's  political  intrigue,  Lady  Henry  conjectured,  was  con- 
nected in  some  way  with  Captain  Warkworth,  a  handsome 
young  officer  who  had  lately  distinguished  himself  in  Afghan- 
istan by  a  heroic  defense  of  his  post.  Warkworth  had  made  his 
report  to  the  government,  and  there  was  nothing  official  to  de- 
tain him  longer  in  England.  Yet  he  remained.  He  was  a  con- 
stant attendant  at  Lady  Henry's  receptions,  where  he  was  intro- 
duced by  Lady  Henry's  fascinating  companion  to  the  most 
influential  members  of  the  British  and  foreign  diplomatic  corps. 
The  v\^atchful  old  woman  blocked  the  "little  game"  so  far  as 
she  was  able  by  summoning  Julie  to  her  side  at  receptions,  and 
by  occupying  her  hours  when  she  was  not  reading  with  purchas- 
ing commissions. 

But  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  had  already  attached  to  herself 
influential  friends,  among  whom  was  Evelyn,  the  Duchess  of 
Crowborough,  a  sprightly  young  woman  of  her  own  age,  who 
was  Lord  Lackington's  grandniece,  and  therefore  related  in 
blood  to  Julie.  Evelyn  connived  with  her  to  defeat  Lady 
Henry's  intentions  by  ordering  a  maid  to  fill  the  onerous  com- 
missions, and  so  giving  Julie  time  for  her  own  devices. 

Jacob  Delafield,  between  whom  and  the  dukedom  of  Chud- 
leigh  stood  only  the  life  of  an  invalid  boy,  consumed  far  more 
of  this  precious  time  than  Julie  felt  she  could  well  spare.  As 
if  by  connivance  of  the  Duchess,  he  was  always  at  Evelyn's  when 
Julie  ran  away  thither  from  Lady  Henry,  and  it  required  great 
tact  to  prevent  him  accompanying  her  on  the  ostensible  "er- 
rands" which  occupied  her  afternoons. 

Lady  Henry  finally  discovered  the  deceit  that  was  practised 


172 


LADY  ROSE'S   DAUGHTER 


upon  her.  Unable  to  read,  she  occupied  much  of  her  time  with 
knitting.  One  day  Julie  returned  with  several  purchases,  in- 
cluding knitting  wool.  Lady  Henry's  acute  sense  of  touch 
noticed  something  wrong  with  the  wool.  "This  is  not  what  I 
ordered,"  she  said.  "You  know  I  gave  you  particular  in- 
structions about  it.     Why  did  Winton's  give  you  this?'* 

"I  suppose  it  was  all  they  had,"  faltered  Julie. 

Something  in  the  tone  aroused  Lady  Henry's  suspicion. 
"Did  you  ever  go  to  Winton's  at  all?"  she  said  quickly. 

Julie  admitted  the  truth:  that  the  Duchess's  maid  had 
executed  the  commission.  This  entailed  further  confes- 
sions, 

"  So  you  spend  the  time  I  pay  you  for  with  other  people  who 
connive  at  your  deceit,"  said  Lady  Henry  harshly.  "And 
whom  do  you  meet  at  the  Duchess's?"  she  asked,  thinking  of 
Captain  Warkworth. 

"Well,  Mr.  Delafield  is  often  there,"  replied  Julie  hesi- 
tatingly. 

"Hm!"  ruminated  the  old  woman,  thinking  she  had  roused 
far  more  important  game  than  the  Captain;  "allow  me  to  assure 
you.  Mademoiselle,  that,  whatever  ambitions  you  may  cherish, 
Jacob  Delafield  is  not  altogether  the  simpleton  you  and  possibly 
silly  Evelyn  Crowborough  imagine.  He  will  take  some  time 
before  he  makes  up  his  mind  to  marry  a  woman  of  your — 
disposition." 

"Mr.  Delafield,"  said  Julie  quietly,  "has  already  asked  me 
to  marry  him." 

"What!"  cried  Lady  Henry,  rising  in  her  chair. 

"Yes,  twice — ^last  year,  and  to-day;  and  I  refused  him. 
It's  horrid  of  me  to  tell,  but  you  forced  me." 

Lady  Henry  fell  back  in  her  chair.  "Why  did  you  refuse?*' 
she  gasped.  "  You  are  aware  that  he  may  inherit  the  dukedom 
of  Chudleigh?" 

"Yes,  I  have  heard  you  say  so,"  answered  Julie.  "I  do  not 
feel  called  on  to  explain  my  reasons,  but  if  I  had  loved  him  I 
should  not  have  consulted  your  scruples." 

"That's  frank,"  said  Lady  Henry,  holding  out  her  hand. 
"I  dare  say  you  feel  too  insulted  to  take  my  hand.  Mademoiselle; 
but — ^you  have  been  playing  tricks  with  me.    Now  we're  quits. 


MARY  AUGUSTA  WARD  173 

I  admire  you.     Shall  we  bury  the  hatchet  and  go  on  as  be- 
fore?" 

Julie  took  the  proffered  hand. 

Julie  Le  Breton  had  fallen  in  love  at  first  sight  with  Captain 
Warkworth,  and  determined  to  further  his  fortunes  by  using  to 
this  end  the  power  which  she  had  over  men,  and  the  opportunity 
she  possessed  as  Lady  Henry's  companion  for  meeting  influential 
officials.  The  Captain's  ambition  was  to  be  appointed  com- 
mander of  an  important  military  expedition  to  a  warlike  African 
tribe,  the  Mokembes,  which  was  in  contemplation. 

The  intrigue  was  progressing  finely.  Only  one  more  inter- 
view with  Montresor,  the  Foreign  Secretary,  she  thought,  and 
the  appointment  was  as  good  as  sealed.  But  this  final  meeting 
was  now  in  jeopardy.  On  the  morning  of  Lady  Henry's  last 
day  of  the  season,  when  Julie  expected  to  bring  Montresor  and 
Warkworth  together,  the  old  woman  was  attacked  with  rheu- 
matism, and  she  gave  orders  to  the  butler  that  the  callers  were 
to  be  turned  away. 

Julie  was  desperate.  She  determined  that  the  reception 
should  be  held  at  all  hazards.  The  butler,  as  were  all  the  serv- 
ants, was  loyally  attached  to  her.  So  she  went  to  him  and  ar- 
ranged that  he  should  show  a  few  particular  friends  in  to  her  in 
the  library,  quietly,  without  disturbing  Lady  Henry. 

When  the  callers  came  that  evening,  it  seemed  so  invidious 
to  Julie  to  make  distinctions,  that  nearly  all  were  admitted: 
Lord  Montresor,  Captain  Warkworth,  the  Duchess  of  Crow- 
borough,  Jacob  Delafield,  Lord  Lackington,  even  Sir  Wilfred 
Bury,  Lady  Henry's  best  friend,  and  therefore  a  person  to  fas- 
cinate whom  Julie  let  no  occasion  slip  by.  For  a  time  the  vis- 
itors talked  in  subdued  tones,  but  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton 
made  such  a  charming  hostess  that  they  all  forgot  themselves 
and  gradually  grew  unrestrained  in  their  merriment.  Lord 
Montresor  and  Captain  Warkworth,  in  particular,  got  upon 
such  friendly  terms  that  they  burst  into  loud  laughter. 

Suddenly  a  triple  knock  was  heard.  Everybody  turned, 
and  saw  Lady  Henry  standing  in  the  doorway  leaning  upon  her 
stick,  with  which  she  had  just  rapped  on  the  floor. 

The  Duchess  ran  toward  her,  and  of  course  fell  upon  the 


174  LADY  ROSE'S   DAUGHTER 

one  thing  she  should  not  have  said.  *'Oh,  Aunt  Flora!  we 
thought  you  were  too  ill  to  come  down!" 

*'So  I  perceive,"  said  Lady  Henry  dryly;  "and  so  you  and 
this  lady" — she  pointed  a  shaking  finger  at  Julie — "have  held 
my  reception  for  me.  Gentlemen" — she  turned  to  the  rest  of 
the  company — "I  fear  I  cannot  ask  you  to  remain  any  longer. 
The  hour  is  late,  and  I  am — as  you  see — indisposed.  But  I 
trust,  on  some  future  occasion,  I  may  have  the  honor — " 

She  looked  around,  challenging  and  defying  them  all. 

Delafield  stepped  forward.  "Dear  Lady  Henry,  let  me 
explain — ^"  he  began. 

"  Go!"  she  said.  He  turned  toward  Julie.  " No,  this  way," 
said  Lady  Henry.  "  You  will  have  an  opportunity  to  see  Mad- 
emoiselle Le  Breton  to-morrow,  to  make  with  her  whatever  en- 
gagement you  desire.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  Miss  Le  Bre- 
ton will  have  no  engagements." 

With  a  glance  of  sympathy  at  Julie  the  young  man  left  the 
room,  followed  by  the  rest  of  the  company.  As  Lord  Lacking- 
ton  was  passing  out  Julie  sprang  forward  impulsively:  "  Fow 
must  help  me;  it  is  my  right!"  she  exclaimed. 

The  old  man  was  puzzled.  "Of  course  I  shall  help  you, 
my  dear  girl,"  he  said  in  a  quieting  tone,  which  he  wrongly  sup- 
posed was  too  low  for  Lady  Henry's  ears;  "I  will- intercede  with 
Lady  Henry  for  you." 

"No,  please,"  said  Julie,  who  had  now  recovered  herself. 
"I  beg  your  pardon;  I  should  not  have  spoken." 

All  of  the  others  expressed  their  sympathy  with  her  in 
glances,  except  Captain  Warkworth,  who  walked  out  with  Mon- 
tresor,  and  from  his  deprecatory  gestures  seemed  to  be  assuring 
his  lordship  that  he  was  clear  of  any  responsibility  for  the  un- 
fortunate  affair. 

Lady  Henry  and  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  were  left  together. 
The  older  woman  refused  to  hear  any  explanations.  "We  part 
now,"  she  said.     "  Good  night,  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton." 

Lady  Henry  moved  heavily  on  her  stick.  It  slipped  on  the 
polished  floor.  Julie,  with  a  cry,  ran  forward,  but  the  old  wom- 
an fiercely  motioned  her  aside.  "Don't  touch  me!"  she  cried, 
and  began  to  pull  herself  up  the  stairs.  "Oh,  do  let  me  help 
you!"  cried  Julie,  in  an  agony.     "You  will  kill  yourself!" 


MARY  AUGUSTA  WARD  175 

"  If  I  were  to  die  mounting  these  stairs,  I  would  not  let  you 
aid  me.  You  should  have  thought  of  the  consequences  before 
embarking  on  your  intrigues." 

Julie  stood  with  bowed  head  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  as  Lady 
Henry  laboriously  ascended  them.  At  last  the  old  woman  dis- 
appeared in  the  room  above.  Then  someone  came  up  softly 
behind  Julie.  She  turned,  startled,  and  saw  Jacob  Delafield, 
who  had  contrived  to  remain  in  hiding  in  the  house. 

"Courage!"  he  whispered.  "Remember  you  promised  to 
let  me  give  you  help  if  ever  you  needed  it." 

"Oh,  perhaps  I  have  killed  her!  And  I  could  have  loved 
her!"  she  cried,  forgetting  her  own  plight  in  her  remorse. 

"You  have  not  killed  her,  and  some  day  you  will  be  good 
friends  and  on  a  proper  footing,"  Delafield  prophesied  assur- 
ingly.  "  Go  to  the  Duchess  as  soon  as  you  can  get  away  to- 
morrow. If  you  have  done  wrong,  we  are  your  accomplices 
and  will  see  you  through.  Now  good  night.  Try  to  sleep,  so 
as  to  be  up  bright  and  early." 

The  Duchess  persuaded  her  husband  to  give  her  one  of  his 
many  city  properties — a  quaint  little  house  which  he  had  in- 
herited from  a  very  religious  aunt,  and  which  remained  as  she 
had  left  it,  even  to  the  Bible  texts  on  the  walls.  This  house 
the  Duchess  let  Julie  have  to  live  in  rent  free. 

Jacob  Delafield  went  to  the  editor  of  a  leading  review,  who 
had  met  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  at  Lady  Henry's  and  was 
carried  away  by  her  comprehension  of  foreign  poHtics,  and 
dropped  a  hint  that  her  services  were  available  as  a  contributor. 
The  editor  immediately  ordered  from  her  an  article  upon  the 
subject  which  they  had  discussed  at  the  reception,  and  promised 
to  keep  her  busy  at  similar  work  in  the  future.  So  Julie  felt 
secure  in  sending  to  Bruges  for  her  foster-sister,  Leonie  Le 
Breton,  and  Leonie's  daughter  Therese,  a  crippled  maid  of 
fourteen,  to  act  as  her  servants. 

Independent  in  her  own  establishment,  engaged  in  congenial 
work.  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  wondered  why  she  still  remained 
dissatisfied.  Surely  this  was  the  life  that  her  parents  by  pre- 
cept and  example  had  taught  her  was  ideal.  But  ah !  her  girlish 
ideals  had  changed  for  the  worse  in  her  dissembling  career  in 
the  convent.     She  came  to  London  determined  to  marry  as  soon 


176  LADY  ROSENS   DAUGHTER 

and  as  well  as  she  could — ^preferably  into  the  same  social  circle 
in  which  her  mother  had  moved — and  thus  to  throw  off  the  slur 
on  her  life  and  to  regularize  her  name  and  place  in  the  world. 
And  this  ambition  she  would  have  realized  as  the  wife  of  the 
possible  heir  of  Chudleigh — had  not  Henry  Warkworth  crossed 
her  path.  Oh,  if  she  could  only  tear  out  of  her  heart  this  love 
that  upset  all  her  calculations! 

But  she  shivered  at  the  thought  of  marrying  Jacob  Dela- 
field — a  mystic,  an  ascetic,  and  a  man  of  iron  veracity  before 
whom  one  must  always  be  posing  at  one's  best.  No!  that  were 
too  onerous  and  too  dangerous  a  life  task  for  such  a  woman  as 
she  now  knew  herself  to  be.  There  was  nothing  left  her  but  to 
prosecute  her  intrigue  with  the  Captain. 

She  wilfully  shut  her  eyes  to  Warkworth 's  moral  cowardice 
as  exhibited  upon  the  night  of  her  dismissal  from  Lady  Henry's, 
and  accepted  the  lame  excuse  which  he  wrote  her  upon  the 
following  day.  A  hitch  had  arisen  in  his  affairs  which  required 
more  of  her  social  diplomacy  to  overcome.  Accordingly  she  set 
out  to  establish  a  salon  of  her  own.  But  in  this  she  met  with 
humiliating  failure.  Lady  Henry,  by  the  help  of  Sir  Wilfred 
Bury,  to  whom  Julie  in  an  unwise  moment  had  confided  her 
plans  for  Warkworth's  promotion,  succeeded  in  having  her 
view  of  Mademoiselle's  character  accepted  by  all  but  Julie's 
immediate  friends.  Among  these,  however,  was  now  numbered 
Lord  Lackington,  who  had  attempted  to  intercede  in  her  behalf 
with  Lady  Henry,  and,  being  treated  with  pitying  contempt  by 
that  implacable  old  woman,  was  stirred  into  active  partizanship 
for  Julie.  His  influence  with  the  government,  when  he  chose  to 
use  it,  was  very  great,  and  he  now  vigorously  exerted  it  at  Julie's 
instigation  in  behalf  of  Warkworth,  with  the  result  that  the 
Times  one  morning  contained  the  official  announcement  of  the 
Captain's  appointment  to  the  command  of  the  military  mission 
to  Mokembe  to  set  out  within  a  month. 

The  prominence  given  to  the  young  soldier's  name  revived 
a  number  of  scandals  about  him.  It  was  said  that  his  extrava- 
gance had  ruined  his  father,  who  died  prematurely  of  grief,  leav- 
ing his  widow  to  live  in  obscure  poverty.  The  Captain's  repu- 
tation in  India  had  been  that  of  a  fortune-hunter;  he  had  won, 
it  was  whispered,  the  heart  of  a  fragile  young  girl,  Aileen  Mof- 


MARY  AUGUSTA  WARD  177 

fatt,  the  granddaughter  of  Lord  Lackington;  and  her  mother, 
the  Lady  Blanche,  did  not  dare  to  break  the  engagement  for 
fear  of  its  effect  on  Aileen's  health  and  even  her  life. 

These  rumors  came  to  Julie's  ears,  but  their  effect  was  only 
to  increase  her  exertions  for  Warkworth.  She  procured  for  him 
tips  upon  government  securities,  with  which  he  made  money 
on  the  Exchange. 

Her  ideas  about  marriage  were  more  foreign  than  British, 
and  they  were  reenforced  by  her  hard  practical  philosophy;  so 
she  justified  the  Captain's  fortune-hunting.  A  military  hero 
was  worthy  of  all  the  wealth  and  social  distinction  that  a  matri- 
monial alliance  could  bring.  What  better  husband  than  the 
gallant  Captain  could  be  expected  for  an  insignificant  girl  such 
as  Julie  with  unconscious  jealousy  conceived  her  cousin  to 
be? 

Although  she  refused  to  acknowledge  it  to  herself,  deep  down 
in  her  heart  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  cherished  the  hope  that 
her  own  proved  ability  in  winning  money  and  preferment  for 
the  Captain  might  cause  him  at  the  last  moment  to  discard  her 
childish  cousin  for  herself.  This  hope,  however,  was  killed  by 
the  Captain  himself. 

He  called  upon  her  in  the  flush  of  his  triumph  to  acknowledge 
his  utter  obligation  to  her — a  debt,  he  said,  that  he  never  could 
repay,  save  in  lifelong  gratitude  for  the  most  beautiful  act  of 
friendship  ever  done  by  a  woman  for  a  man. 

They  were  alone  in  her  house.  "A  dear  little  home,"  he 
called  it;  "you  won't  be  lonely?" 

" Oh,  no!"     But  her  smile  was  linked  with  a  sigh. 

He  drew  nearer  to  her.  "You  should  never  be  lonely  if  I 
could  help  it,"  he  said  tenderly. 

"When  people  are  nameless  and  kinless,"  she  replied  sadly, 
"they  must  be  lonely." 

Captain  Warkworth  felt  within  him  a  sudden  snapping  of 
restraints.  He  burst  forth  into  a  confession  of  his  love,  yet  of 
his  unworthiness  even  to  be  her  friend.  He  told  her  of  his  pro- 
posal to  the  little  girl  in  India;  of  her  acceptance;  and  how,  after 
a  row  with  her  guardians,  who  insisted  that  he  had  behaved 
badly,  he  had  promised  to  withdraw  for  two  years  in  order  to 
give  her  opportunity  and  time  to  forget  him,  if  she  could.  She, 
A.D.,  VOL.  xvn. — 12 


178  LADY  ROSE'S   DAUGHTER 

however,  was  happily  counting  on  his  fulfilment  of  the  troth. 
"Don't  think  me  a  cad,  my  dear  friend,"  he  said  passionately, 
'*  when  I  say  that  if  I  deserted  her  it  would  kill  her.  Oh,  if  you 
knew  what  a  dear,  delicate  thing  she  is!" 

**And  what  a  large  fortune  she  will  bring  her  husband," 
added  Julie  bitterly.  "Yes,  I  knew  all  this  before.  And  in 
view  of  your  determination,  it  is  no  less  just  to  me  than  to  my — 
that  is,  to  the  little  girl  in  India,  that  we  terminate  our  dangerous 
*  friendship.'" 

"Julie,"  he  cried  in  a  voice  that  shook  her,  "don't,  for  God's 
sake,  give  me  up!  I  shall  soon  be  gone  to  the  jungles  of  Africa, 
perhaps  never  to  return  either  to  Aileen  or  to  you.  Do  not  em- 
bitter my  remembrance  of  these  last  months  with  you.  They 
have  been  very  happy  months,  haven't  they,  dear?  There  are 
just  three  weeks  left.  Give  them  to  me.  Don't  let's  play  at 
cross-purposes  any  more.  Let  us  throw  aside  convention  and 
trust  each  other,  so  that  when  I  go,  each  of  us  may  say :  '  Well, 
it  was  worth  the  pain.  These  have  been  days  of  gold — ^we 
shall  get  no  better  if  we  live  to  be  a  hundred.' " 

She  looked  on  him  through  tear-dimmed  eyes.  Never  had 
his  aspect  been  so  winning.  What  he  proposed  was,  in  truth, 
a  mean  thing;  all  the  same  he  proposed  it  nobly.  It  was  im- 
pulsive Julie  Dalrymple,  Lady  Rose's  daughter,  and  not  the  cal- 
culating Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  who  held  out  both  hands  to 
her  lover.  The  Captain  seized  them,  and,  kissing  them  passion- 
ately, he  drew  her  to  his  embrace. 

After  Wark worth  left  her  she  sat  a  long  while  looking  with 
the  inner  eye  into  the  future.  The  vague,  golden  hope  she  had 
cherished  through  these  past  months  of  scheming  was  gone 
forever.  Warkworth  would  marry  Aileen  Moffatt  and  use  her 
money  for  an  ambitious  career.  After  these  weeks  now  lying 
before  them — ^weeks  of  dangerous  intimacy,  dangerous  emotion 
— she  and  he  would  become  as  strangers  to  each  other.  She 
would  be  left  alone  to  live  her  life. 

A  sudden  terror  of  her  own  weakness  overcame  her.  No, 
she  could  not  be  alone.  To-night  she  was  afraid  of  her  in- 
herited element  of  lawlessness.  She  must  have  a  husband  to 
protect  her  against  herself.  Besides,  though  love  went  out  of 
her  life,  power,  the  joy  of  bending  other  wills  to  her  purpose,  was 


MARY  AUGUSTA  WARD  179 

left  her,  and  to  exercise  this  she  must  acquire  a  permanent 
social  position. 

There  was  Jacob  Delafield. 

She  set  herself  deliberately  to  think  out  what  it  meant  to 
marry  him;  then  suddenly  broke  down  and  wept,  sobbing  out 
words  of  her  old  convent  prayers,  appeals  half  conscious  to  a 
God  half  believed. 

In  this  spiritual  crisis  Julie  turned  to  Lord  Lackington,  and 
revealed  herself  as  his  grandchild.  But  the  old  are  not  quick 
to  adapt  themselves  to  new  situations,  and  Julie  mistook  her 
grandfather's  numbness  of  surprise  for  coldness.  Accordingly 
she  resigned  herself  to  Warkworth's  plan.  This  was,  to  spend 
their  last  few  days  together  in  an  obscure  suburb  of  Paris.  Here 
he  went  in  advance ;  she  left  England  a  few  days  after,  ostensibly 
to  visit  her  old  home  in  Bruges,  but  really  to  join  her  lover. 

Lord  Lackington  fell  ill  from  the  shock  of  Julie's  disclosure, 
and  the  afterthought  of  how  coldly  he  must  have  seemed  to  her 
to  receive  it.  Jacob  Delafield,  whom,  having  no  sons  of  his 
own,  he  loved  as  his  child,  was  the  only  person  besides  the  serv- 
ants at  his  bedside.  Through  the  wanderings  of  the  sick  man's 
mind,  Delafield  pieced  together  his  relationship  to  Julie,  and 
divined  his  craving,  as  unto  death,  for  her  presence.  He  sent 
to  her  house,  and  learned  that  she  had  just  left  for  Bruges.  He 
telegraphed  to  her  at  that  city,  and  then  took  the  last  train  which 
would  catch  the  boat  on  the  route — ^to  Paris,  for  Jacob,  with  a 
lover's  keen  eye,  had  noted  in  Warkworth's  open  farewell  to 
Julie  indications  that  it  would  be  followed  by  secret  meeting. 

Delafield  found  Julie  in  time  to  turn  her  back  with  the  news 
of  her  grandfather's  mortal  illness,  and  his  desire  to  be  recon- 
ciled with  her.  The  old  man  breathed  his  last  in  the  arms  of 
Lady  Rose's  daughter,  happy  in  her  forgiveness  of  his  harsh 
treatment  of  her  mother  and  herself.  He  asked  her  to  promise  to 
marry  Delafield.  To  soothe  him  she  did  so,  at  a  nod  from 
Jacob. 

When  it  was  all  over  Julie  turned  to  Jacob.  "Mr.  Dela- 
field, why  did  you  hunt  for  me  on  the  Paris  boat?" 

"Because  I  surmised  you  were  going  to  join  Wark worth," 
he  answered  bluntly. 

"And  what  if  I  was?" 


i8o  LADY  ROSE'S   DAUGHTER 

"I  had  to  prevent  it,  for  your  own  as  well  as  your  grand- 
father's sake." 

**Who  gave  you  authority  over  me?" 

"  One  may  save — even  by  violence.  You  were  too  precious 
to  be  allowed  to  destroy  yourself.  I  know  I  have  given  you  pain, 
but  yet" — ^his  voice  trembled — ''I  thank  God  I  had  the  courage 
to  do  it!" 

Her  own  lip  quivered  and  her  face  was  white  with  emotion. 
"I  know  you  think  you  were  right,  but  henceforth  we  can  only 
be  enemies.  You  have  tyrannized  over  me  in  the  name  of 
standards  that  you  revere  and  I  reject;  henceforth  you  must  let 
my  life  alone." 

Secretly  Julie  was  relieved  that  Delafield  had  rescued  her 
from  herself,  and  her  opinion  of  him  was  heightened  by  con- 
trast with  her  lover  on  receiving  a  letter  from  Warkworth  which 
also  "thanked  God"  that  she  had  had  the  good  sense  to  recon- 
sider the  matter  and  break  the  appointment.  "I  was  mad  to 
tempt  you,"  he  said;  "it  would  have  been  the  ruin  of  both  our 
careers.     Forget  it  all.     Marry  a  man  worthy  of  you." 

In  the  honesty  of  her  soul  Julie  sought  out  Jacob.  "  I  have 
come  to  retract  what  I  told  you.  I  am  glad  you  saved  me  from 
this  man";  and  she  threw  down  the  letter  before  him. 

"Julie,"  he  said,  "do  you  recall  your  promise  to  your  grand- 
father? I  had  not  intended  to  remind  you  of  it,  but  I  have 
great  need  of  you.  Poor  Mervyn  is  dead,  and  I  am  the  Duke 
of  Chudleigh.  Your  love  alone  will  enable  me  to  bear  this 
unwelcome  burden — and  I  have  observed  that  with  you  love 
grows  with  opportunity  for  helpfulness." 

"  Then  it  will  be  my  part  to  be  a  worldling — for  your  sake, 
whereas  before  it  was  for  my  own." 


CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER 

(United  States,  1829-1900) 
THE   GOLDEN  HOUSE   (1894) 

The  title  of  this  story  was  suggested  by  the  Golden  House  of  Nero,  a  palace 
erected  by  that  monarch  at  Rome  after  the  fire  of  64  a.d.  Gold  and  precious 
stones  blazed  on  its  walls,  and  it  was  considered  one  of  the  wonders  of  the 
Roman  Empire.  The  story  is  a  sequel  to  A  Little  Journey  in  the  World,  by  the 
same  author,  both  dealing  with  the  same  group  of  people  in  New  York's  social 
set. 

CROWD  of  gay  society  people,  ever  on  the  alert 
for  something  new,  sought  to  satisfy  this  desire 
by  witnessing  an  Oriental  dance  given  by  a  fa- 
mous dancer  in  one  of  New  York's  most  seductive 
studios.  Jack  Delancy  was  among  the  number 
and,  though  married  hardly  a  year,  he  was  unat- 
tended by  his  wife.  His  explanation  that  her 
taste  was  not  for  that  sort  of  thing  roused  some 
resentment  in  a  young  woman  eagerly  watching 
the  dance.  However,  feeling  that  this  only  classed  Mrs.  De- 
lancy as  old-fashioned,  she  forgave  him.  Jack's  marriage  with 
Edith  Fletcher  had  astonished  his  friends,  who  felt  doubtful 
whether  her  high  ideals  and  blue  blood  could  fully  atone  to  him 
for  her  lack  of  fortune. 

The  greeting  that  Edith  gave  her  husband  on  the  morning 
following  the  dance  was  bright  and  cheery.  She  rallied  him  on 
his  entertainment  of  the  night  before  and  offered  him  the  op- 
portunity of  seeing  the  same  dancer  at  some  charitable  affair, 
which  he  promptly  declined,  inquiring  whether  the  exercises, 
being  under  the  patronage  of  a  very  devout  woman,  were  likely 
to  be  opened  with  prayer.  Edith  found  him  very  amusing,  if 
not  exactly  tractable,  and  easily  accepted  his  refusal  as  well  as 
his  excuses  for  being  absent  from  luncheon  on  account  of  a  busy 
day.    The  busy  day  was  to  consist  in  looking  at  some  old  prints, 

i8i 


i82  THE   GOLDEN  HOUSE 

trying  a  new  horse  at  the  riding-school,  and  finally  dropping  in 
at  the  club.  As  it  proved,  the  horse  took  so  much  of  Jack's 
time  that  he  was  obliged  to  postpone  the  prints  till  another  day, 
while  the  company  of  friends  at  the  club  broke  up  barely  in  time 
for  him  to  step  in  for  a  cup  of  tea  at  a  pleasant  rendezvous. 
There  he  secured  a  tUe-d.-ttte  with  Miss  Tavish,  who  also  had 
been  a  guest  at  last  evening's  performance. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "I  have  been  trying  that  dance, 
and  I  feel  sure  we  American  girls  can  do  it  quite  as  well  as  that 
Spanish  woman.  I'm  going  to  propose  it  as  a  means  for  raising 
money  for  our  East-Side  work." 

"No  doubt  the  East  Side  would  like  it,"  Jack  replied.  "I 
think  they  would  be  interested  in  you." 

"Well,  never  mind,"  said  Miss  Tavish,  "you'll  pay  dear  for 
that.     The  tickets  are  to  be  fifty  dollars." 

With  that  Miss  Tavish  departed,  inspiring  a  sympathetic 
sigh  from  the  hostess  as  to  why  that  girl  didn't  marry.  Jack 
murmured  something  about  no  one  being  able  to  afford  it,  and 
took  his  leave  also.  His  wife  already  at  home  had  likewise  been 
spending  a  busy  day.  She  had  been  with  her  very  old  friend 
Ruth  Leigh,  a  doctor  and  faithful  minister  to  the  poor,  whose 
work  inspired  Edith  with  the  keenest  sympathy.  Together  they 
had  gone  from  house  to  house  and  heard  the  pitiful  tales  of  want 
and  suffering,  and  with  these  scenes  in  her  mind  Edith  prepared 
for  the  Henderson  dinner. 

The  Hendersons  were  not  exactly  to  Edith's  liking,  and  this 
was  the  first  time  they  had  dined  there.  It  was  a  concession  to 
Jack  because  of  a  little  speculation  of  his,  where  the  great  finan- 
cier had  come  to  his  aid  and  helped  him  to  a  small  profit.  Old 
Major  Fairfax  had  pointed  out  to  Jack  the  cause  of  the  friendly 
intervention  to  be  Mrs.  Henderson's  social  ambitions.  From 
being  something  of  an  adventuress,  she  had  become  the  wife  of 
the  wealthiest  man  in  the  Street,  and  gossip  would  have  it  that 
Carmen  Eschelle  had  manifested  much  interest  in  him  before 
the  first  Mrs.  Henderson's  death. 

At  the  dinner  Edith  found  Mr.  Henderson  an  agreeable 
talker  and  led  him  on  to  speak  of  the  zest  in  the  financial  game, 
which  she  liked  better  than  Mrs.  Henderson's  affected  interest 
in  city  missions.     Jack  and  his  companion,  who  chanced  to  be 


CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER       183 

Miss  Tavish,  found  mutual  enjoyment  in  talking  over  the  new 
conventional  club  and  its  somewhat  questionable  entertainments. 
Thither  it  was  proposed  to  adjourn  after  the  dinner.  Edith 
asked  to  be  left  at  her  own  door,  but  readily  consented  to  her 
husband's  joining  the  others.  While  Carmen  and  Miss  Tavish 
and  Mr.  Delancy  were  enjoying  the  diversion  provided  by  the 
quick  movement  of  practised  feet,  off  in  Rivington  Street  Ruth 
Leigh  was  giving  what  comfort  she  could  to  a  dying  girl.  Father 
Damon,  a  member  of  an  Anglican  order  bound  to  poverty  and 
chastity,  knelt  at  the  girl's  side  and  repeated  the  simple  prayers. 
He  had  first  seen  her  at  his  mission,  and  her  pitiful  confession 
had  touched  him  deeply. 

Though  Father  Damon  and  Ruth  Leigh  worked  together 
for  one  great  purpose,  they  stood  far  apart.  Father  Damon 
was  an  ascetic,  whose  serious  views  of  life  and  extremely  gentle 
manner  made  him  dangerously  near  to  being  popular  with  the 
ladies  in  wealthy  up- town  homes,  while  Ruth  Leigh,  absorbed 
by  the  practical  side  of  the  work,  neglected  the  spiritual  and  for 
herself  gave  no  heed  or  care  whatever. 

With  Carmen  Henderson's  social  aspirations  and  Jack 
Delancy's  financial  hopes,  there  was  sufficient  reason  for  con- 
tinuing the  acquaintance  between  the  two  families.  When 
Jack  dropped  in  on  Carmen  one  afternoon  after  hearing  an  un- 
pleasant rumor  concerning  Henderson's  operations,  it  was  easy 
for  him  to  question  that  adroit  little  woman;  and  when  she  had 
satisfied  him,  it  was  as  easy  for  her  to  let  him  know  of  her  social 
trials.  No  one  could  bring  Mrs.  Schuyler  Blunt  around  so 
easily  as  he,  and  he  left  determined  to  accomplish  this,  especially 
after  Carmen's  last  words: 

"Mr.  Delancy,  don't  you  worry  about  that  rumor  on  the 
Street.    You  may  trust  me.     It  will  be  all  right." 

That  evening  Carmen  followed  her  husband  about  with 
more  than  her  usual  wifely  attention,  and  that  observing  gentle- 
man was  not  slow  in  remarking : 

"Well,  what  do  you  want  now?" 

Then  followed  a  recital  of  her  encounter  with  Mrs.  Schuyler 
Blunt  on  some  charity  board,  with  an  outline  of  the  way  to 
smooth  the  differences.  Mr.  Henderson  sincerely  believed  his 
wife  had  her  right  to  her  game  as  well  as  he,  and  when  he  found 


i84  THE   GOLDEN  HOUSE 

that  it  involved  his  giving  a  hand  to  Jack  Delancy,  he  made  a 
weak  protest  about  lame  ducks,  but  agreed. 

The  next  day  Henderson  carried  out  his  part  of  the  deal,  and 
that  night  Delancy,  exuberant  over  his  gains  and  grateful  for 
the  assistance,  approached  Edith  on  the  subject  of  entertaining 
the  Hendersons.  It  was  not  easy  to  invite  a  company  of  common 
friends,  and  Jack  was  firm  on  the  subject  of  the  Schuyler  Blunts. 
Edith,  with  her  keen  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things,  protested 
mildly,  but  was  finally  won  over,  and  the  guests  were  settled 
upon.  Mavick,  Jack's  Washington  friend,  was  included,  and 
also  Miss  Tavish.  Father  Damon  gave  a  properly  serious  tone 
to  the  affair,  and  though  the  dinner  itself  was  not  different  from 
other  dinners,  its  consequences  proved  far-reaching.  For  Father 
Damon  it  proved  another  avenue  for  reaching  the  pockets  of 
the  rich.  Carmen  gained  her  point  with  Mrs.  Blunt,  and  thus 
opened  other  doors  for  herself.  Mr.  Mavick,  with  his  intimate 
knowledge  of  political  situations  and  convenient  air  of  mystery, 
was  close  enough  to  legislation  at  the  capitol  to  be  a  valuable 
acquisition  to  Henderson  in  his  financial  schemes,  while  it  was 
of  equal  importance  to  that  gentleman  to  ally  himself  with  a 
capitalist. 

Shortly  afterward  Miss  Tavish  gave  a  dance.  When  Jack 
asked  Edith  whether  she  had  answered  the  invitation,  she  ex- 
pressed herself  as  ready  to  decline. 

"But  it's  for  charity,"  protested  Jack. 

"Yes,"  replied  Edith,  "and  my  charity  extends  to  Miss 
Tavish.    Therefore  I  shall  not  see  her  dance." 

Notwithstanding  his  wife's  refusal,  Jack  attended,  and  en- 
joyed himself.  He  was  enjoying  almost  everything  about  that 
time,  for  prosperity  appeared  to  be  coming  his  way.  His  specu- 
lations were  successful,  and  his  entertainments  were  in  accord. 
He  was  even  contemplating  a  yacht.  The  Major  gave  him  fre- 
quent warnings  about  trusting  too  much  to  Henderson,  and  a 
few  timely  hints  as  to  Carmen. 

"You  know  you  cannot  serve  two  masters  and  find  yourself 
very  safe,"  he  remarked  one  day  at  the  club. 

"Who,  for  instance?"  asked  Jack,  somewhat  irritated. 

"Oh,  nothing  personal,"  replied  the  old  man;  "for  the  sake 
of  names  we'll  say  Carmen  and  Henderson." 


CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER       185 

Jack  went  home  ruffled  by  the  Major's  frankness.  His 
mood  was  not  lost  on  Edith,  to  whose  ears  also  gossip  had  come, 
and  the  next  day  she  took  Mrs.  Henderson  for  a  drive  in  the  park 
and  asked  her  to  luncheon.  Jack  was  pleased  with  Edith's 
graceful  management,  but  remained  in  New  York  when  she 
went  down  to  a  rented  cottage  on  the  Long  Island  shore. 
Though  this  was  nothing  but  an  old  farmhouse,  the  golden 
brown  that  it  took  at  sunset  led  Edith  to  call  it  The  Golden 
House.  She  accepted  Jack's  reasons  for  staying  in  town,  and 
he  did  not  seem  to  mind  the  separation.  His  friends  were  re- 
maining late,  and  little  suppers  and  frequent  excursions  passed 
the  time  while  he  was  waiting  for  his  yacht. 

The  people  remaining  in  town  on  the  other  side  of  the  city 
did  not  find  life  so  pleasant.  Dr.  Leigh  continued  her  rounds, 
and  Father  Damon,  except  for  ten  days  spent  with  Edith, 
tended  his  flock  with  true  devotion.  Ruth  Leigh  occasionally 
dropped  into  his  chapel  for  rest  if  not  for  spiritual  comfort,  and 
noted  the  failing  strength  of  the  good  man.  On  one  of  these 
occasions,  overcome  by  his  work  and  fasting,  he  fainted  on  leav- 
ing the  chancel.  Dr.  Leigh  came  forward,  applied  restoratives, 
and  had  him  borne  to  his  poor  little  apartment;  but  he  would 
not  rest  long,  and  soon  he  was  at  his  post  again. 

Meanwhile  Jack's  yacht  was  ready,  and  with  his  party  of 
friends  he  set  out  on  his  cruise.  He  entertained  royally,  and 
when  they  reached  Bar  Harbor,  where  they  were  cordially  wel- 
comed by  Miss  Tavish  and  Carmen,  the  trip  was  pronounced  the 
best  ever  made.    Carmen  was  charming  in  her  interest  in  Jack. 

"  You  see  I  am  here  to  take  care  of  you,"  she  said,  explaining 
her  presence,  "for  there  is  no  telling  into  what  Miss  Tavish 
might  lead  you." 

Mavick  would  doubtless  have  been  surprised  to  know  that 
after  making  herself  most  charming  to  him.  Carmen  had  written 
to  her  husband:  *'If  I  were  in  your  place,  I  should  keep  a  sharp 
lookout  for  Mr.  Mavick.    He  is  a  very  clever  man." 

One  afternoon  as  they  were  cruising  about  among  the  islands, 
Miss  Tavish  persuaded  the  skipper  to  let  her  take  the  wheel. 
She  handled  the  boat  wefl  and  finally  proposed  going  out  to 
meet  the  steamer.  They  met  the  boat  and  had  an  exciting  race 
back,  in  which  the  yacht  was  an  easy  winner.    Then  Jack  called : 


i86  THE   GOLDEN  HOUSE 

"Why  not  go  around  her?    Easy,  isn't  it,  skipper?" 

"She  can  do  it,  sir,"  replied  the  skipper,  and  immediately 
they  turned  about. 

Though  they  were  at  a  safe  distance,  the  turning  brought 
them  nearer.  Then  something  broke,  and  the  yacht  could  not 
respond  to  her  helm.  The  big  steamer  reversed,  but  it  was  too 
late  and  she  ran  ahead,  tearing  a  big  hole  in  the  bow  of  the 
yacht,  just  above  the  water  line.  Assistance  was  promptly  given, 
and  all  were  safely  landed.  Jack  hastened  at  once  to  telegraph 
Edith  before  she  should  see  the  exaggerated  accounts  of  the 
newspapers;  but  a  letter  found  at  the  hotel  caused  him  to  follow 
his  telegram,  leaving  his  friends  to  beguile  the  time  as  best 
they  could. 

For  the  time  being  Edith's  happiness  at  his  coming  seemed 
to  Jack  sufficient  reward,  and  it  was  pleasant  to  hear  her  say: 

"Yes,  Jack,  I  was  a  little  lonely;  but  I  was  happy  to  know 
you  were  enjoying  yourself,  and  to  be  here  just  waiting  would 
be  so  tiresome  for  you." 

At  the  end  of  the  summer  Jack  felt  himself  faithful  to  his 
new  responsibilities,  when  he  took  his  wife  and  son  back  to 
the  city,  and  his  resolutions  would  have  been  a  credit  to 
any  father.  However,  his  old  aimless  life  soon  took  posses- 
sion of  him,  and  his  club  saw  more  of  him  than  did  his  wife 
and  child. 

Father  Damon  called  on  Edith  soon  after  her  return,  and 
told  how  much  suffering  he  had  been  able  to  lighten  by  a  gift 
of  ten  thousand  dollars  from  Mr.  Henderson.  He  had  given  no 
reason  except  that  it  was  his  fancy  and  he  wished  it  called  the 
Margaret  Fund. 

"That  was  his  first  wife's  name,"  said  Edith. 

"I  knew  that,"  said  Father  Damon,  "and  as  he  left  I  heard 
him  saying  to  himself,  '  I  think  she  would  like  that.' " 

The  use  of  this  fund  brought  Father  Damon  into  closer  con- 
tact with  Dr.  Leigh,  and,  struggle  as  he  would,  there  was  some- 
thing about  the  woman  that  he  could  not  resist.  When  he  came 
upon  her  in  her  office,  the  impulse  was  too  strong.  He  bent 
toward  her.  It  was  but  for  a  moment  and  he  was  himself  again, 
but  he  knew  and  she  knew  that  he  loved  her.  The  good  priest, 
full  of  contrition,  sought  his  retreat  and  made  confession;  but 


CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER       187 

his  penance  was  to  return  to  the  same  task  with  the  same  temp- 
tation; and  Ruth  was  happier  because,  though  she  knew  the 
hopelessness,  she  knew  she  was  loved. 

Poor  Edith  was  not  as  happy  in  these  days.  Business  took 
Jack  to  Washington,  as  it  also  took  his  friends  the  Hendersons, 
and  she  and  her  boy  were  more  alone  together  than  before,  but 
on  Jack's  return,  she  was  as  lovely  and  amiable  as  ever.  Bend- 
ing over  their  boy's  crib,  she  told  her  husband  of  her  desire  to 
use  a  part  of  her  small  fortune  to  buy  The  Golden  House  for 
their  son.  Jack  agreed  to  her  plan  with  all  his  old  boyish  en- 
thusiasm, and  the  next  day  took  steps  to  accompHsh  her  plan. 

Meanwhile  another  Golden  House  was  under  contemplation. 
Carmen  had  convinced  her  husband  of  their  duty  to  bring  in  a 
new  era  of  domestic  architecture  by  building  such  a  house  as 
should  represent  the  best  work  of  artists  and  architects. 

"Certainly,"  he  replied.  "Let's  build  a  house  of  gold,  as 
Nero  did.    This  is  the  Roman  age,  you  know." 

Soon  she  was  full  of  her  plans,  and  Henderson's  generous  use 
of  money  placed  no  restrictions  on  her  ambitions.  But  one  day 
when  an  architect  brought  forth  a  suggestion  involving  consid- 
erable increase  in  cost.  Carmen  thought  it  wise  to  consult  her 
husband.  Stepping  into  his  office,  she  saw  him  sitting  with  his 
head  resting  on  his  arms. 

"So  this  is  the  way  you  toil!"  she  called  out  laughingly,  but 
there  was  no  response,  and  as  she  gently  touched  him  he  did  not 
stir.  She  screamed,  and  the  clerks  rushed  in  and  placed  him 
on  a  lounge.  The  doctor  was  summoned  and  applied  all  pos- 
sible restoratives,  but  it  was  useless;  Henderson  was  dead. 
The  news  soon  reached  the  Street,  and  a  panic  ensued.  While 
his  own  holdings  were  secure,  such  stocks  as  had  been  borne 
up  by  his  name  fell  to  nothing,  and  small  investors  were  crushed. 
Jack  Delancy  was  among  the  latter.  He  went  to  the  club  and 
talked  it  over  with  the  Major.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done. 
He  was  ruined,  but  even  then  his  thoughts  turned  to  Carmen. 

"I  wonder  what  she  will  do?"  he  said;  "she  is  a  good- 
hearted  little  woman." 

"  Why,  Jack,  she  hasn't  any  heart,"  replied  the  Major,  "  and 
I  believe  Henderson  knew  it,  and  what's  more  the  will  will 
show  it." 


i88  THE   GOLDEN  HOUSE 

Just  then  a  telegram  was  handed  to  Jack.  It  was  from  Edith, 
who  was  at  their  Golden  House;  it  ran: 

"  Don't  worry.     Baby  and  I  are  well.     Come." 

Yet  to  face  Edith  was  the  one  thing  he  could  not  do.  He 
never  had  confided  in  her  about  his  speculations,  and  he  surely 
could  not  go  to  her  now  with  his  losses. 

Though  Jack  left  his  card  of  condolence  for  Carmen,  he  had 
no  word  from  her;  and  though  he  heard  Mavick  was  in  town,  he 
did  not  see  him. 

Mr.  Henderson's  business  was  of  such  a  nature  that  it  re- 
quired instant  attention.  Before  going  to  his  office.  Carmen 
went  carefully  through  his  desk  at  the  house.  Everything  was 
in  order.  She  found  a  few  of  her  own  letters  before  her  mar- 
riage and  a  package  marked  *' Margaret.''  She  also  found  a 
will  witnessed  by  Mavick  and  a  butler  once  in  their  employ,  who 
had  recently  died.  The  will  left  her  only  a  small  portion  of  his 
estate.  The  major  part  went  to  the  founding  of  a  great  trade 
school  and  library  on  the  East  Side.  The  next  day,  in  company 
with  the  lawyer.  Carmen  went  through  the  papers  in  his  office. 
Another  will  was  found,  made  shortly  after  their  marriage,  giving 
her  the  bulk  of  his  property.  The  lawyer  knew  of  the  other 
being  drawn  up  and  told  its  contents,  but  was  not  sure  it  had 
been  executed.  On  her  return  to  her  home  Carmen  telegraphed 
Mavick.  They  had  a  very  clear  understanding  of  the  situation, 
and  after  repeating  the  lawyer's  conversation  about  the  second 
will,  she  looked  him  squarely  in  the  face. 

"Mr.  Mavick,"  she  said,  "do  you  think  that  will  was  ever 
executed?" 

After  some  minutes  of  great  intensity,  looking  as  steadily  at 
her,  he  replied: 

"No,  it  was  not." 

That  was  all,  for  Carmen  was  soon  alone  in  her  room,  and 
then  there  was  no  second  will.  The  reporters  were  told  much 
of  her  intention  of  carrying  out  her  husband's  unwritten  wishes, 
and  the  papers  were  full  of  her  generosity  and  the  prospective 
enterprise. 

Jack's  situation  was  desperate.  His  home  was  sold  with  all 
its  furnishings.  He  went  into  cheap  lodgings,  and  spent  his 
days  seeking  work.     Edith  wrote,  but  he  would  not  go  to  her. 


CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER       189 

He  pawned  his  clothing  and  lived  as  meanly  as  possible.  No 
one  knew  of  his  residence  except  the  Major,  who  forwarded  the 
little  mail  that  came.  At  last  Edith  could  bear  it  no  longer. 
She  had  kept  her  expenses  within  her  own  little  income,  and 
offers  to  share  it  had  been  steadily  refused.  When  she  came  to 
town,  she  sought  out  Major  Fairfax,  learned  her  husband's 
address,  and  went  to  his  furnished  room,  but  he  was  not  in. 
She  then  went  to  the  warehouse  of  her  cousin,  Mr.  Fletcher. 
He  had  always  been  ready  to  help  her,  and  this  time  he  did  not 
fail  her.  She  returned  to  her  home  without  seeing  her  husband, 
but  the  next  day  he  received  a  message  from  Fletcher  and 
Company,  asking  him  to  call  at  the  office.  His  pride  at  first 
refused,  but  thinking  it  might  concern  his  wife's  property,  he 
went.  Mr.  Fletcher  then  offered  him  a  place  as  confidential 
clerk,  to  begin  with  two  thousand  dollars  a  year.  The  work 
was  far  from  congenial,  and  a  life  of  routine  was  very  dull 
for  Jack  Delancy,  but  he  had  no  choice,  and  he  accepted  the 
opportunity. 

The  business  was  not  easy  to  learn,  but  Jack  worked  faith- 
fully and  proved  himself  a  man  to  be  depended  upon.  Still  he 
was  not  ready  to  present  himself  to  Edith,  till  one  day  Mr. 
Fletcher  suddenly  proposed  his  going  out  on  the  four  o'clock 
train  to  take  a  day  off  with  his  family.  The  suggestion  was  too 
much  of  a  surprise  to  give  him  time  to  refuse.  When  Jack 
reached  the  little  cottage,  he  found  Edith  singing  an  old  melody 
at  the  piano.  As  he  stole  softly  up,  her  head  dropped  in  her 
hands  and  he  buried  his  head  in  the  folds  of  her  dress,  ex- 
claiming : 

''  Oh,  Edith!    What  a  fool  I  have  been." 

Her  joy  was  almost  unspeakable;  she  could  only  say,  "Thank 
God,  you  have  come." 

The  little  holiday  brought  them  very  close  together.  The 
old  life  was  ended,  and  for  Jack  the  struggle  in  his  new  life  was 
not  always  easy.  He  passed  his  club  with  regret,  but  Carmen 
he  did  not  regret.  He  heard  of  her  going  from  one  European 
capital  to  another,  always  with  Mavick  in  her  train,  but  their 
secret  he  did  not  know. 

The  next  summer,  while  Major  Fairfax  was  visiting  at  The 
Golden  House,  Jack  read  from  the  paper  of  Mavick' s  appoint- 


igo  THE   GOLDEN  HOUSE 

ment  on  the  mission  to  Rome  and  of  his  prospective  marriage 
with  Mrs.  Henderson. 

"But  nothing  is  said  of  the  training-school,"  remarked 
Edith;  'Msn't  it  too  bad?" 

"Poor  man,"  said  the  Major.  "If  Henderson  can  see  what 
all  his  work  has  come  to,  he  must  think  his  life  was  a  burlesque." 


SUSAN   WARNER 
(1819-1885) 

THE  WIDE,  WIDE  WORLD  (1851) 

This  book,  published  under  the  pen-name  "Elizabeth  Wetherell,"  won 
wide  popularity  and  maintained  it  throughout  a  half  century.  Its  hold  on  its 
readers  was  a  mystery  to  literary  critics;  for  although  written  in  good  English, 
it  is  extremely  simple  and  prolix.  Undoubtedly  its  charm  came  partly  from 
its  faithful  and  minute  portrayal  of  the  rural  life  of  the  period,  for  when  it 
appeared  the  agricultural  class  was  far  larger  than  all  others  combined,  and 
preferred  stories  of  scenes  and  things  with  which  its  people  were  familiar. 
Besides,  the  tone  of  the  tale  was  strongly  yet  simply  and  practically  religious; 
there  was  not  a  trace  of  romantic  love  in  its  pages,  so  it  was  a  safe  book  to  put 
into  the  hands  of  young  people  of  either  sex. 


XEN  MONTGOMERY  was  the  only  chM  of 
a  well-born  and  conscientious  mother  who  was 
so  sensitive  and  unadaptive,  probably  because  of 
continual  illness,  that  she  was  almost  without 
friends.  Although  extremely  affectionate,  she 
had  been  unable  to  win  her  husband  to  congenial- 
ity ;  but  her  daughter  was  so  loving  and  responsive 
that  Mrs.  Montgomery  made  a  constant  com- 
panion of  her,  to  Ellen's  great  gratification  and 
also  to  her  injury,  for  the  child  became  precocious  and  so  emo- 
tional that  every  appeal  to  her  feelings  met  with  a  flood  of  tears. 
She  had  the  misfortune  to  be  born  at  a  time  when  one  of  the 
conventional  marks  of  gentle  blood  was  entire  ignorance  of 
everything  material  and  practical,  yet  she  was  a  well-behaved, 
pretty,  dainty  creature,  with  some  winsome  ways  that  were  not 
overlooked  by  people  blessed  with  clear  eyes  and  warm  hearts. 
While  EUen  was  still  a  child,  her  mother's  health  became  so 
seriously  impaired  as  to  require  the  gentle  air  of  Southern  Europe. 
Fearing  the  worst,  and  having  a  husband  whose  business  and 
inclination  made  him  almost  a  stranger  to  his  family,  she  dared 

191 


192  THE  WIDE,  WIDE  WORLD 

not  take  Ellen  with  her,  so  the  child  was  sent  to  her  father's 
half-sister,  Miss  Fortune  Emerson,  who,  with  Ellen's  grand- 
mother, resided  on  an  old  estate  in  the  country.  Mrs.  Mont- 
gomery never  had  seen  the  place  or  her  husband's  sister  and 
mother,  so  she  could  not  prepare  the  child  for  her  new  life  except 
by  telling  her  to  trust  unceasingly  in  Heaven's  care. 

Ellen  was  accustomed  to  city  manners  only  and  the  comforts 
and  surroundings  that  are  possible  to  city  people  with  slender 
purses,  so  her  heart  sank  within  her  when  she  found  her  aunt 
Fortune  a  hard-featured,  shabbily  dressed,  cold-mannered  wom- 
an in  a  clean  but  bare  and  repellent  farmhouse  of  which  she  was 
owner  and  also  maid-of-aU-work.  Her  table  was  abundantly 
supplied,  but  with  only  the  simplest  and  coarsest  foods,  and  her 
kitchen  was  also  her  dining-room.  Ellen  had  to  wash  her  face 
and  hands  outdoors  at  the  spout  of  a  tube  through  which  water 
came  from  a  hillside  spring;  her  bedchamber  contained  no  closet, 
no  mirror;  and  her  aunt's  face,  which  had  not  shown  any  ex- 
pression of  welcome,  discouraged  the  child  from  asking  for  much 
that  she  had  been  taught  to  need.  Poor  Ellen  longed  frantically 
for  her  mother  every  day,  and  cried  herself  to  sleep  at  night. 

As  the  days  passed  on,  her  heart  lost  some  of  its  heaviness. 
Uncertain,  as  yet,  whether  the  child  was  to  be  a  boarder  or  a 
mere  dependent — for  Captain  Montgomery  was  slow  and  care- 
less in  his  dealings  with  his  relatives— Miss  Fortune  allowed 
Ellen  to  do  whatever  she  liked.  She  delighted  in  the  flowers, 
became  interested  in  the  farm  animals,  and  found  a  firm  friend 
of  the  undemonstrative  kind  in  Mr.  Van  Brunt,  the  farmer  in 
charge  of  all  Miss  Fortune's  outdoor  affairs.  The  aunt  made 
no  demands  whatever  on  the  child,  and  the  grandmother  had 
learned  to  become  a  mere  nonentity  in  an  easy  chair,  as  was 
quite  the  fashion  with  grandmothers  fifty  years  ago,  so  EUen 
felt  the  lack  of  womanly  care  and  sympathy. 

But  one  day,  while  wandering  far  from  home,  she  chanced 
to  meet  Alice  Humphreys,  daughter  of  an  old  clergyman,  and 
from  that  day  she  was  never  without  intelligent  sympathy  and 
help.  Miss  Alice's  character  was  both  sweet  and  strong;  she 
was  cultivated  as  well  as  educated.  Ellen  had  a  warm  senti- 
mental affection  for  her  Bible  and  its  precious  promises;  Alice 
taught  her  that  the  book  contained  also  many  injunctions  that 


SUSAN  WARNER  193 

must  be  obeyed.  Alice^s  brother  John,  who  was  studying  for 
the  ministry,  was  a  young  man  of  high  character,  rigid  princi- 
ples, and  capacious  heart.  When  after  long  acquaintance  Alice 
insisted  on  adopting  Ellen  as  a  sister,  John  demanded  that  he  be 
adopted  as  a  brother,  and  thereafter  he  was  a  cheerful  and  trusty 
friend  to  the  lonely  child.  And  there  were  other  good  people  to 
love  Ellen — Mr.  Van  Brunt's  mother,  who  had  a  home  of  her 
own,  and  Mrs.  Vawse,  a  middle-aged  Swiss  woman,  who  lived 
like  a  poverty-stricken  hermit,  but  talked  like  an  angel  and  was 
always  sweet-tempered. 

Miss  Fortune  did  not  approve  of  her  niece's  new  friends; 
their  interests  and  tastes  were  unlike  hers,  and  she  distrusted 
whatever  she  did  not  understand.  Besides,  Captain  Montgom- 
ery had  remained  silent  so  long  about  money  matters  that  Miss 
Fortune  wearied  of  being  practically  the  servant  of  a  child  who 
never  offered  a  helping  hand  or  thought  of  the  extra  work  she 
was  making  for  hands  already  very  full. 

One  day  Ellen  asked  when  and  where  she  was  to  go  to  school; 
she  wished  to  learn  many  things;  she  was  doing  nothing.  Then 
her  aunt  Fortune's  temper  burst  forth.  "Doing  nothing!" 
Well,  she  would  give  her  something  to  do,  and  enough  of  it;  in 
proof  of  which  she  set  Alice  to  cleaning  dishes  for  the  wash-pan, 
and  when  the  child  shrank  from  the  work  because  it  was  indeli- 
cate she  was  threatened  with  a  whipping.  This  was  but  the 
beginning  of  long  schooling  in  the  necessary  drudgery  of  a  farm- 
house, and  also  of  a  conflict  of  natures;  for  if  Miss  Fortune  was 
hard  and  positive,  Ellen  was  quite  as  full  of  pride  and  passion 
as  any  child  that  had  been  reared  indulgently.  She  would  have 
believed  herself  a  martyr  under  torture,  had  not  her  friend  Alice 
reminded  her  that  one's  first  duties  are  those  nearest  at  hand. 
She  was  not  cruelly  treated ;  there  was  nothing  vindictive  in  her 
aunt's  nature;  besides,  Mr.  Van  Brunt,  who  was  often  in  the 
house  and  seemed  to  have  some  mysterious  influence  over  his 
employer,  usually  sided  with  Ellen,  and  in  such  cases  Miss  For- 
tune yielded  without  a  word  of  remonstrance. 

Yet  Ellen's  outlook  was  dismal  at  best.  She  was  uncertain 
about  the  condition  of  her  idolized  mother,  whose  letters  Miss 
Fortune  was  intercepting  and  secreting,  perhaps  because  she 
feared  the  contents  w^ould  make  the  child  wretched;  no  word  or 

A.D.,  VOL.  xvn. — 13 


194  THE   WIDE,  WIDE  WORLD 

attention  came  from  her  father,  who  apparently  had  forgotten 
that  she  existed;  the  possibility  of  being  a  farm  drudge  all  her 
life,  in  a  part  of  the  country  where  farmers'  families  were  few 
and  were  also  uncompanionable  to  city -bred  people;  little  time 
to  enjoy  the  companionship  always  awaiting  her  at  the  Hum- 
phreys' home — all  this  would  have  cast  a  permanent  shadow 
over  a  stronger  mind  than  Ellen's. 

While  she  wondered  and  thought  and  hoped  and  feared  and 
at  times  almost  despaired,  the  unexpected  was  impending,  and 
when  it  was  disclosed  the  incidents  were  so  many  and  followed 
one  another  so  rapidly  as  to  be  startling.  Mr.  Van  Brunt's 
mother  died,  and  not  long  afterward  Van  Brunt  married  Miss 
Fortune.  The  attachment  had  existed  for  years,  but  the  man 
would  not  marry  while  his  mother  lived.  Ellen's  father  suddenly 
appeared  at  the  farm;  he  was  a  self-indulgent  creature  who 
hated  scenes  of  every  kind,  so  his  presence  gave  but  little  cheer 
to  his  daughter,  and  it  was  not  until  some  days  after  his  de- 
parture that  Ellen  learned  that  her  mother  had  died.  Death 
seemed  determined  to  prepare  a  new  life  for  the  child,  for  her 
aunt,  Mrs.  Van  Brunt,  was  called  to  another  life.  Then  Alice 
Humphreys,  her  brother  John,  and  her  father  took  Ellen  to  their 
own  home  and  made  her  in  every  respect  a  member  of  their  fam- 
ily, and  by  precept,  example,  and  much  affection  they  changed 
her  from  an  emotional  and  moody  girl  to  the  beginnings  of  an 
admirable  young  woman. 

This  congenial  life  continued  until  marred  by  the  death  of 
Miss  Alice.  Even  after  that  great  shock  Ellen  found  duty  and 
happiness  in  being  a  daughter  to  Alice's  father,  to  whom  she 
became  indispensable.  She  had  been  taught  to  regard  herself 
as  Mr.  Humphreys's  daughter  in  everything  but  blood  and  name, 
and  she  asked  for  no  other  future  than  to  be  a  member  of  his 
family.  But  three  years  after  her  aunt's  death  she  was  startled 
and  shocked  by  the  contents  of  some  papers  that  a  meddlesome 
and  inquisitive  neighbor  had  found  while  rummaging  in  some 
trunks  in  the  old  Fortune  house.  One  of  these  was  the  last 
letter  her  mother  ever  wrote;  it  was  addressed  to  her,  and 
told  of  a  meeting  and  reconciliation  with  Ellen's  Scotch 
grandmother,  from  whom  Mrs.  Montgomery  had  long  been 
estranged.    The  old  lady,  who  was  quite  wealthy,  desired  to 


SUSAN  WARNER  195 

take  her  daughter's  child  as  her  own,  and  Mrs.  Montgomery 
expressed  an  earnest  wish  that  Ellen  would  avail  herself  of  the 
offer.  There  was  also  a  letter  from  Ellen's  father,  commanding 
her  to  go  to  her  grandmother  in  Edinburgh,  as  soon  as  proper 
escort  could  be  found ;  her  aunt,  he  said,  would  supply  the  neces- 
sary means,  in  accordance  with  an  arrangement  he  had  made 
with  her. 

And  these  papers  were  three  years  old !  Evidently  Miss  For- 
tune had  been  withholding  them  until  her  brother  should  fulfil 
his  promise  of  money.  But  he  had  failed  to  do  so;  he  had  been 
lost  at  sea,  and  she  had  died  without  disclosing  anything  regard- 
ing the  matter.  Ellen's  quandary  may  best  be  inferred  from 
her  soliloquy: 

"I  have  promised  Alice;  I  have  promised  Mr.  Humphreys; 
I  can't  be  adopted  twice.  And  this  Mrs.  Lindsay,  my  grand- 
mother, she  cannot  be  nice,  or  she  would  not  have  treated  my 
mother  so.  She  must  be  hard;  I  never  wish  to  see  her.  But 
then,  my  mother  loved  her,  and  was  very  glad  to  have  me  go  to 
her.  Oh,  oh!  How  could  she?  How  could  they  do  so,  when 
they  didn't  know  how  it  might  be  with  me  and  what  dear  friends 
they  might  make  me  leave?  Oh,  it  was  cruel;  but  then,  they 
did  not  know;  that  is  the  very  thing;  they  thought  I  would  have 
nobody  but  Aunt  Fortune,  and  so  it's  no  wonder.  But  what 
shall  I  do?  What  ought  I  to  do?  These  people  in  Scotland 
must  have  given  me  up  by  this  time,  for  it  is  about  three  years, 
a  little  less,  since  these  letters  were  written.  I  am  older  now, 
and  circumstances  are  changed.  I  have  a  home  and  a  father 
and  a  brother;  may  I  not  judge  for  myself?  But  my  mother 
and  my  father  have  ordered  me;  what  shall  I  do?  If  my  brother 
John  were  here — but  perhaps  he  might  make  me  go;  he  might 
think  it  right.  And  to  leave  him,  and  maybe  never  see  him 
again!  And  Mr.  Humphreys — how  lonely  he  would  be  without 
me!    I  cannot!    I  will  not!    Oh,  what  shall  I  do?" 

She  went  to  Mrs.  Vawse,  apparently  the  poorest,  humblest, 
most  self-effacing  of  her  friends,  for  counsel,  and  the  good  woman 
not  only  advised  her  to  obey  her  dead  mother's  wishes  but  sup- 
plied her  with  money  for  the  journey.  Mr.  Humphreys,  too,  re- 
minded her,  against  his  own  inclinations,  that  duty  should  not 
give  way  to  feeling. 


196  THE   WIDE,  WIDE  WORLD 

So  Ellen  went  to  Edinburgh  and  found  not  only  a  grand- 
mother but  an  uncle — her  mother's  brother — and  an  aunt,  the 
latter  being  addressed  as  Lady  Keith.  All  were  full  of  warm- 
blooded Scotch  loyalty  to  their  own  flesh  and  blood;  very  af- 
fectionate, too,  and  highly  intelligent  in  many  things;  but  their 
ideas  of  America  and  its  people  were  so  peculiar  that  they  were 
astonished  to  find  their  new  ward  a  graceful,  pretty  girl,  with — 
thanks  to  the  good  family  that  had  adopted  her  and  educated 
her — faultless  manners  and  more  general  knowledge  and  cul- 
tivation than  were  general  with  Scottish  girls  of  good  families. 
She  was  not  lacking  in  animation  and  love  of  pleasure,  but  when- 
ever Lady  Keith  gave  a  great  party  Ellen  was  less  likely  to  dance 
than  to  chat  with  men  who  knew  something  of  literature,  art, 
and  history. 

Soon  she  became  the  family  pet;  quite  as  soon  she  learned 
that  the  theory  and  practise  of  family  discipline  in  Scotland  was 
far  more  comprehensive  and  rigid  than  any  she  had  suffered  un- 
der her  aunt  Fortune.  Caresses  were  show^ered  upon  her;  every 
wish  she  uttered  was  gratified,  but  she  was  commanded,  and 
sternly,  too,  to  drop  communication  with  her  American  friends, 
to  forget  them  and  forget  also  that  she  was  an  American. 

All  this  was  cruel  as  weU  as  impossible,  but  a  more  affrighting 
order  was  laid  upon  her.  Alice  Humphreys  had  trained  her  to 
begin  every  day  with  an  hour  of  Bible  reading,  religious  thought, 
and  prayer.  This  she  was  ordered  to  discontinue;  first,  because 
the  family  desired  her  presence  at  that  particular  hour,  and  af- 
terward, because  it  was  her  duty  to  obey  her  grandmother. 

What  might  have  resulted  need  not  be  imagined,  for  Ellen's 
adopted  brother,  John  Humphreys,  who  had  been  traveling  in 
Europe,  made  his  way  to  Edinburgh  to  see  his  only  remaining 
sister.  His  first  call  was  inopportune,  for  a  great  entertainment 
was  in  progress  and  the  family  declined  to  receive  a  man  from 
the  wilds  of  America — probably  a  rude  backwoodsman.  But 
the  servants  found  John's  manner  irresistible.  It  was  Ellen's 
fortune  to  meet  him  before  her  relatives  were  aware  of  his  pres- 
ence, and  she  poured  out  her  heart  to  him.  Then  she  presented 
him  to  her  uncle,  who  was  again  astonished,  for  John's  dress, 
speech,  and  manners  did  not  suffer  by  comparison  with  those  of 
any  guest  in  the  drawing-room.    Ellen's  uncle  was  high-bred, 


SUSAN  WARNER  197 

but  so  was  John,  and  when  gentleman  meets  gentleman  and 
both  are  honest  and  control  their  tempers,  it  is  impossible  for 
one,  even  if  he  be  a  self-willed  Scot,  to  show  the  other  the  door. 
Ellen  knew  both  men  so  well  that  she  studied  their  faces 
keenly*  They  talked  apart  from  her,  so  she  could  not  hear  their 
voices,  but  she  saw  her  uncle  progress  through  formal  civility 
to  courtesy,  then  to  interest,  and  finally  to  genuine  Scotch  hearti- 
ness, which  is  as  good  as  any  in  the  world.  She  could  not  hear 
John  explain  that  his  sister  Alice  and  he  had  developed  Ellen's 
character,  and  that  in  the  course  of  this  work  and  his  larger 
acquaintance  with  her  while  she  was  his  father's  ward  and 
adopted  daughter  he  had  become  so  fond  of  her  that,  although 
he  never  had  spoken  to  her  of  any  love  that  was  not  brotherly, 
he  intended  to  marry  her  when  she  came  of  age.  His  financial 
and  social  position,  he  proved  to  the  satisfaction  of  Ellen's  uncle 
and  other  relatives,  was  such  as  would  make  him  as  acceptable 
a  husband  as  could  be  found  anywhere  in  Scotland  for  Ellen. 
And  good  Scotch  families  do  like  their  girls  to  marry  well. 


I 


SAMUEL   WARREN 

(England,  1807-1877) 
TEN    THOUSAND  A  YEAR   (1841) 

This  English  classic,  but  little  read  perhaps  by  the  modern  public,  is 
recommended  even  now  by  law  school  professors  to  their  classes  as  an  adjunct 
in  collateral  reading,  because  of  its  luminous  exposition  of  legal  procedure  under 
the  old  English  common-law  practise.  The  ordinary  reader,  however,  will  not 
dwell  on  this  professional  brevet,  in  view  of  its  brilliant  survey  of  hfe  and  its 
multiplicity  of  satirical  strokes  and  portraits.  Its  author,  an  eminent  barrister, 
established  his  title  to  fame  in  this  work,  which  ran  for  nearly  two  years  in 
Blackwood* s  Magazine  before  book  publication,  and  sustained  its  fascination  in 
spite  of  its  immense  length.  Its  subject  is  typical  of  a  sort  of  complication  that 
has  involved  English  life  in  many  a  romantic  episode,  and  has  inevitably  risen 
under  the  conditions  and  laws  of  realty  land-tenure  and  inheritance  in  Great 
Britain.  The  Tichbourne  affair  and  the  more  recent  Druce  case  are  vivid 
illustrations  within  the  ken  of  this  generation. 

[ITTLEBAT  TITMOUSE  was  a  shopman  in  the 
mercery  establishment  of  Tagrag  &  Co.,  Oxford 
Street,  London,  a  manikin  of  little  more  than  five 
feet,  with  a  physiognomy  ape-like  in  its  impu- 
dence and  imbecility,  though  not  strictly  ill-look- 
ng,  and  he  earned  thirty -five  pounds  a  year.  The 
vanity  of  the  wretched  little  cockney,  however, 
fed  him  with  the  conviction  that  he  was  worthy 
of  the  best  that  fate  could  bestow  on  her  favorite 
sons,  a  mood  that  was  greatly  excited  when  he  saw  in  the  Sunday 
Flash  a.  ^'Next  of  Kin"  advertisement  asking  the  nearest  living 
relative  of  Gabriel  Tittlebat  Titmouse,  formerly  a  cordwainer 
of  Whitehouse,  to  communicate  with  Quirk,  Gammon  and  Snap, 
Solicitors,  Saffron  Hill.  Mr.  Titmouse  was  informed  by  this 
legal  firm — whose  business  had  hitherto  been  mostly  in  Old 
Bailey  practise,  which  made  them  the  defenders  of  murderers, 
thieves,  and  other  criminals — that  there  was  a  probability  of 
his  being  the  rightful  heir  of  a  very  valuable  estate  at  Yatton  in 

198 


SAMUEL  WARREN  199 

Yorkshire,  with  a  rental  of  ten  thousand  pounds  a  year.  The 
incumbent  for  ten  years  had  been  Charles  Aubrey,  Esq.,  Mem- 
ber of  Parliament,  and  next  but  one  to  a  peerage,  a  man  of  the 
highest  character  for  ability,  learning,  and  public  spirit.  Quirk, 
Gammon  and  Snap,  a  firm  of  solicitors  of  very  doubtful  repute 
among  their  legal  brethren,  had  come  to  the  knowledge  of  an 
apparent  flaw  in  the  title  of  Charles  Aubrey  in  a  singular  fash- 
ion. The  latter  gentleman  at  the  time  of  his  marriage  to  Miss 
Agnes  St.  Clair,  the  portionless  daughter  of  a  gallant  colonel 
killed  in  the  Peninsular  War,  had  of  course  requested  his  family 
lawyer,  Mr.  Parkinson  of  Grilston,  to  draw  the  settlements. 
The  detail  work  of  this  had  been  entrusted  to  one  Stcggars,  a 
shrewd  but  unscrupulous  clerk,  who  had  thus  had  access  to  all 
the  family  deeds.  This  sharp  fellow  had  promptly  surmised 
a  missing  link  in  an  otherwise  perfect  title,  which  was  of  a  nature 
so  obscure  that  it  had  escaped  serious  attention  on  the  part  of 
Mr.  Parkinson.  The  latter,  as  the  inheritance  had  descended 
unchanged  for  three  generations,  had  regarded  the  matter  in 
question  as  a  cloud  almost  imperceptible,  and  had  only  casually 
mentioned  it  to  Mr.  Aubrey,  who  also  dismissed  it  from  his  mind 
as  negligible,  even  in  a  matter  of  such  great  importance.  Steg- 
gers  had  taken  copies  and  elaborate  notes  of  this  and  other  pro- 
fessional secrets  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Parkinson,  with  a  view  to 
making  them  some  time  a  blackmailing  asset. 

When  he  absconded  with  a  considerable  sum  of  money  and 
was  arrested  in  London,  Mr.  Quirk,  the  trusted  familiar  of 
criminals,  had  been  employed  by  him  and  so  came  into  possession 
of  his  nefariously  gotten  memoranda  as  satisfaction  for  a  fee, 
before  his  transportation  to  Botany  Bay.  Oily  Gammon,  the 
thinker  of  the  firm,  though  equally  unscrupulous  with  Quirk 
and  Snap,  had  at  first  discouraged  the  use  of  the  clue;  but  he 
finally  succumbed  to  the  chances  of  great  gains.  It  was  through 
his  efforts  that  Tittlebat  Titmouse  had  been  unearthed  from  his 
obscurity  and  the  desired  links  of  evidence  made  clear.  The 
antecedent  facts  of  the  succession,  as  the  "tree"  lay  before 
Quirk,  Gammon  and  Snap,  were  as  follows:  The  descent  was 
from  a  common  ancestor,  Dreddlington,  of  close  kin  to  the  Earl 
of  that  ilk,  who  was  also  Baron  Drelincourt,  one  of  the  oldest 
titles  in  the  kingdom.    This  ancestor  had  two  sons,  Harry  and 


200  TEN  THOUSAND  A  YEAR 

Charles,  of  whom  the  elder  died  childless,  and  Charles,  succeed- 
ing, had  two  sons,  Stephen  and  Geoffrey.  The  first  had  lived 
a  wandering  and  dissipated  life  and  was  supposed  to  have  died 
without  issue  also.  The  daughter  and  heiress  of  Geoffrey,  who 
had  thus  become  in  seizin  of  the  property,  married  the  father 
of  Charles  Aubrey.  The  weak  point  in  the  Aubrey  title  lay  in 
the  possibility  of  some  unknown  legitimate  descendant  of  Stephen 
Dreddlington  coming  to  light. 

The  Saffron  Hill  beagles  had  pursued  this  scent  with  great 
assiduity.  They  had  found  that  Stephen  left  a  daughter  by  an 
obscure  marriage,  and  that  she  had  married  Gabriel  Tittlebat 
Titmouse,  that  marriage  having  been  duly  registered.  The 
further  discovery  of  a  child  of  that  union  had  been  the  final  coup 
of  Quirk,  Gammon  and  Snap,  to  realize  on  which  they  had  been 
willing  to  risk  all  the  penalties  of  those  tactics  under  the  old 
English  common  law — champerty  and  maintenance — applying 
to  unscrupulous  lawyers  who  study  to  initiate  litigation  and 
work  on  contingent  fees.  The  weak  point  in  the  case,  as  Gam- 
mon shrewdly  pointed  out,  lay  in  the  following  contingency: 
Harry  Dreddlington,  eldest  son  of  the  original  common  ancestor, 
had  conveyed  his  property  rights  in  fee  to  one  Aaron  Moses,  to 
secure  a  heavy  loan.  If  Harry's  death  occurred  before  his 
father's,  that  conveyance  would  have  been  null.  It  was  more 
than  suspected,  too,  that  Geoffrey  Dreddlington,  the  younger 
son  of  Charles  and  nephew  of  Harry,  had  paid  off  the  mortgage, 
and  that  there  had  been  a  reconveyance  by  Moses  to  him,  a  fact 
that  would  tend  to  make  the  claim  of  the  younger  line  dominant. 
The  strength  of  the  Titmouse  claim  then  lay,  aside  from  his 
legitimate  descent  from  Stephen,  in  the  proof  of  the  original 
Dreddlington 's  survival  of  his  eldest  son,  which  would  render 
the  first  conveyance  and  the  subsequent  reconveyance  invalid. 

Proceedings  began  at  Yatton  with  one  of  the  fictitious  writs 
know^n  as  **John  Doe  vs.  Richard  Roe,"  affecting  only  a  very 
small  portion  of  the  Aubrey  estate.  Mr.  Aubrey  paid  litde 
attention  to  it,  but  sent  it  to  his  local  lav^yer,  Mr.  Parkinson. 
While  these  secret  machinations  were  brewing,  the  Aubrey  fam- 
ily had  been  plunged  into  grief  by  the  death  of  old  Madame 
Aubrey,  who  had  been  for  many  years  the  Lady  Bountiful  of 
the  neighborhood.     During  the  very  funeral  services,  indeed, 


SAMUEL  WARREN  201 

Mr.  Gammon  had  been  prowling  in  the  churchyard,  and  there, 
on  an  old  tombstone  buried  in  the  grass,  he  discovered  the  date 
of  Harry's  death  as  preceding  that  of  his  father,  which  appeared 
to  clench  the  last  nail  in  the  case.  Mr.  Parkinson  had  perceived 
in  the  "Doe  vs.  Roe"  proceeding  something  beneath  the  sur- 
face, and  had  sent  it  to  Mr.  Rumington,  the  great  London  solic- 
itor, who  on  his  part  had  submitted  it  to  eminent  counsel.  These 
all  agreed  on  the  interior  purport,  and  that  some  very  important 
secret  knowledge  as  to  the  inheritance  affecting  its  legal  tenure 
had  come  to  hght. 

The  serious  character  of  the  struggle  was  made  known  to 
Aubrey,  and  he  at  once  began  to  prepare  for  it.  Failing  to  secure 
Mr.  Subtile,  the  leader  of  the  Northern  Circuit,  who  had  already 
been  retained  by  the  other  side,  he  placed  his  case  in  the  hands 
of  the  Attorney-General,  with  Messrs.  Sterling  and  Crystal,  two 
eminent  barristers,  to  assist  him;  while  Mr.  Subtile  was  as- 
sisted by  Mr.  Quicksilver  and  Mr.  Lynx,  also  highly  distin- 
guished in  the  profession.  The  case  came  on  in  the  York  As- 
sizes before  Lord  Widdrington,  one  of  the  foremost  English 
judges,  and  the  proof  appeared  to  be  in  favor  of  the  proponent 
till  a  turn  came  which  seemed  to  destroy  his  claim. 

This  was  the  discovery  by  Mr.  Parkinson  in  the  documents 
of  another  estate,  where  it  had  inadvertently  lain  for  many  years 
through  an  old  blunder,  of  a  paper  by  the  original  Dreddlington 
confirming  his  son's  conveyance,  and  thus  validating  the  re- 
conveyance to  his  grandson  Geoffrey  on  the  satisfaction  of  the 
mortgage.  On  very  close  inspection,  however,  an  ancient  eras- 
ure and  substitution  of  a  few  words  were  discovered,  and  on  this 
basis  Lord  Widdrington  felt  himself  reluctantly  compelled  to 
exclude  the  document.  That  determined  the  fate  of  the  estate, 
as  Mr.  Aubrey,  a  fanatic  in  his  sense  of  honor,  refused  to  carry 
it  any  further. 

So  the  ancient  hall  was  transformed  from  the  home  of  an 
exquisite  refinement  and  cultivation  into  a  den  and  pigsty  of 
reprobates,  with  which  Tittlebat  Titmouse  proceeded  to  fill  its 
time-honored  chambers.  The  mere  loss  of  the  estate,  however, 
was  not  the  worst  of  the  inflictions  of  fate.  Charles  Aubrey  was 
liable  to  his  successor  for  sixty  thousand  pounds,  the  mesne 
profits  of  six  years'  incumbency,  under  the  statute  of  limitation. 


202  TEN  THOUSAND  A  YEAR 

This  was  the  final  crushing  load  that  almost  drove  him  insane. 
He  had  taken  his  family  to  London — wife,  sister,  and  two  beauti- 
ful children ;  and  there  he  purposed  to  settle  down  to  the  study 
of  law,  a  profession  for  which  he  was  eminently  fitted  by  his 
eminent  talents  and  scholarly  training.  In  spite  of  a  multitude 
of  woes  and  anxieties,  this  finely  tempered  spirit  addressed  its 
energies  to  a  complex  study  with  the  utmost  patience  and  con- 
centration, yet  found  time  to  augment  straitened  means  by 
contributions  to  the  reviews  and  magazines.  His  courage  found 
added  strength  in  the  fortitude  of  an  amiable  wife  and  sister. 
The  latter,  a  young  woman  of  surpassing  beauty  and  charm  of 
character,  had  been  the  object  of  suit  by  Geoffrey  Delamere,  the 
son  and  heir  of  Lord  De  La  Zouch,  one  of  the  richest  peers  of 
England. 

Oily  Gammon,  whose  astute  strategy  had  been  the  main- 
spring of  the  Titmouse  triumph,  spared  no  cunning  to  get  his 
worthless  protege  completely  under  his  thumb.  To  strengthen 
his  influence,  he  caused  him  to  become  the  Whig  candidate  for 
Parliament  in  his  borough  district,  and  himself  conducted  the 
canvass,  using  unlimited  fraud  and  bribery.  Geoffrey  Delamere 
entered  the  field  as  the  Tory  competitor,  but  was  defeated  at  the 
hustings  through  the  unscrupulous  methods  of  Gammon,  who 
had  a  double  antagonism  toward  Delamere,  as  he  had  seen  and 
become  enamored  of  the  extraordinary  beauty  of  Kate  Aubrey, 
to  win  whom  his  audacity  would  venture  any  length.  In  se- 
curing the  election  of  Titmouse,  however.  Gammon  also  laid 
the  foundation  of  election-suits  against  his  agents— as  he  had 
cunningly  kept  his  own  participation  in  the  background — which 
Lord  De  La  Zouch  prosecuted  with  all  the  resources  of  his 
wealth. 

The  Parliamentary  career  of  Tittlebat  Titmouse,  whose  per- 
sonality and  pretensions  made  him  an  object  of  ridicule  and 
disgust,  was  a  travesty  on  the  values  of  legislation.  Yet  by  the 
force  of  his  impudence — as,  for  example,  his  '' Cock-a-doodle- 
do"  at  some  crisis,  convulsing  the  House  with  laughter,  when 
the  opposition  was  carrying  all  before  it — the  little  ape  com- 
mended himself  to  his  party  managers.  Thus  he  became  an 
object  of  curiosity  and  interest  to  London  society,  always  on 
the  gape  for  amusing  vagaries.    The  metamorphosis  of  Tit- 


SAMUEL  WARREN  203 

mouse  achieved  its  final  triumph  in  the  recognition  of  the  Earl 
of  Dreddlington,  the  head  of  one  of  the  oldest  noble  families  in 
the  peerage  of  Great  Britain. 

This  nobleman,  endowed  by  nature  with  small  brain  and 
heart,  both  engorged  with  overweening  family  pride,  had  had 
his  whole  life  wrapped  up  in  the  stupid  formalities  and  preroga- 
tives of  station,  yet  he  was  a  bigoted  Whig  in  politics.  Charles 
Aubrey,  as  next  of  kin  after  the  Earl's  daughter.  Lady  Cecilia,  in 
the  succession  of  the  ancient  barony  of  Drelincourt — the  earldom 
expired  with  himself- — had  been  the  object  of  his  animosity  for 
many  years.  This  enmity  was  due  not  only  to  political  reasons, 
but  because  the  former  squire  of  Yatton  had  refused  to  unite  the 
family  branches  by  paying  his  suit  to  Lady  Cecilia.  When  an- 
other ousted  Aubrey  from  the  Yatton  estate,  he  also  established 
by  that  suppression  his  relation  to  the  Drelincourt  peerage. 
These  facts,  the  bachelordom  of  the  new  man,  and  his  Whig 
politics  invested  him  with  a  halo  in  the  eyes  of  Lord  Dreddling- 
ton, who  left  his  card  at  the  rooms  of  Titmouse,  with  an  invita- 
tion to  a  family  dinner. 

The  fantastic  vision  that  met  the  eyes  of  the  Earl  and  Lady 
Cecilia  was  a  disillusionment  more  shocking  than  the  wildest 
fancy  could  have  anticipated.  Yet  it  did  not  prevent  the  noble- 
man, besotted  with  the  fixed  idea  of  family  aggrandizement, 
from  conjuring  up  results  of  great  moment,  which  glorified  even 
an  image  so  novel  to  his  aristocratic  experience.  Ten  thousand 
a  year,  double  the  income  attached  to  the  Dreddlington  coronet, 
was  a  magic-working  thought;  and  its  queer  little  owner  would 
be  all  the  more  plastic  in  the  hands  of  such  a  master  of  social  and 
political  diplomacy  as  the  Earl  considered  himself  to  be.  This 
ambition  the  father  engrafted  on  Lady  Cecilia's  somewhat  in- 
ane mind,  though  her  very  flesh  crawled  with  aversion  at  the 
approach  of  the  homunculus,  even  when  more  familiar  ac- 
quaintance would  have  tended  to  blunt  the  impression.  When 
Parliament  adjourned  the  Dreddlingtons  went  down  to  York- 
shire and  shed  the  splendor  of  their  presence  on  Yatton  as 
guests  of  Tittlebat  Titmouse.  Gammon  was  present  and  con- 
trived to  make  a  rapid  conquest  of  all  the  Earl's  prejudices  by 
a  businesslike  betterment  of  some  of  the  nobleman's  tangled 
finances.     Such  pressure  was  brought  to  bear  on  the  unfortunate 


204  TEN  THOUSAND  A  YEAR 

Lady  Cecilia  that  before  the  party  returned  to  town  she  had  be- 
come the  fiancee  of  the  erstwhile  cockney  shopman. 

The  stock  company  mania  was  then  beginning  to  spread  its 
delirium.  In  this  the  shrewd  Gammon  recognized  great  potency 
of  money-making,  and  he  easily  persuaded  the  foolish  Earl  to 
lend  his  title  to  various  projects  tending  to  dazzle  credulous  in- 
vestors. Lord  Dreddlington  made  so  much  money,  and  made 
it  so  easily  during  the  heyday  of  these  enterprises,  that  he  fan- 
cied himself  a  great  financier,  who  might  yet  become  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer.  Gammon,  spider  fashion,  was  busy  spin- 
ning more  than  one  web  out  of  his  cunning  brain.  One  of  these 
subserved  his  passion  for  Kate  Aubrey,  who  had  made  such  an 
indelible  impression.  The  settlement  of  that  colossal  debt  of 
the  mesne  profits  had  been  the  one  frightful  nightmare,  which 
among  all  Aubrey's  troubles  could  not  be  charmed  away.  Gam- 
mon, who  held  all  the  strings  of  intrigue,  had  kept  his  partner 
Quirk  from  pressing  the  issue  to  its  finale,  so  that  it  had  been 
held  in  terrorem  only,  and  he  determined  to  use  it  as  a  gateway 
to  acquaintance  with  the  Aubrey  family.  Thereupon  he  wrote 
to  Charles  Aubrey,  after  he  had  induced  Tittlebat  Titmouse  to 
accede  to  the  desired  arrangement,  in  spite  of  the  remonstrances 
of  Quirk.  The  proposition  was  to  release  forty  thousand  pounds 
of  the  debt,  the  other  twenty  thousand  to  be  payable  in  two 
notes  of  one  and  two  years,  with  some  sufficient  surety.  Lord  De 
La  Zouch  becoming  his  indorser.  Mr.  Aubrey  was  also  per- 
mitted to  escape  the  immediate  collection  of  the  entire  bill  of 
costs,  which  was  enormous,  by  settling  about  half  in  cash,  and 
he  was  given  to  understand  that  both  these  invaluable  con- 
cessions were  due  to  the  magnanimity  of  Mr.  Gammon.  The 
intriguer  thus  secured  the  privilege  of  visiting  the  Aubrey  family, 
though  with  a  secret  reluctance  on  the  part  of  its  head,  who 
could  not  refrain  from  distrust.  In  further  acquaintance  with 
Kate  Aubrey  his  enamored  spirit  was  emboldened  to  such  a 
pitch  of  passion  that,  one  day  finding  her  alone,  he  avowed  his 
love,  to  the  lady's  great  alarm  and  repulsion.  In  pleading  his 
cause  his  last  reckless  argument  was  his  power  to  restore  her 
brother  to  his  lost  estate. 

Kate,  in  narrating  the  unpleasant  adventure,  forgot  to  men- 
tion this  in  her  agitation ;  but  her  brother,  who  requested  Gam- 


SAMUEL  WARREN  205 

mon  to  discontinue  his  visits,  was  soon  made  to  feel  the  conse- 
quences of  a  new  attitude  on  the  part  of  the  astute  spirit  who  had 
animated  the  whole  litigation.  Mr.  Aubrey  was  informed  by  a 
letter  from  Quirk,  Gammon  and  Snap  that  they  should  insist 
on  the  payment  of  the  full  bill  of  legal  costs  without  delay,  and 
the  result  was  incarceration  in  debtors'  prison,  from  which  he 
was  extricated  by  Mr.  Rumington.  A  further  exploit  of  Gam- 
mon's malice  related  to  the  probating  of  the  will  of  Lady  Stratton, 
containing  a  bequest  of  a  life  insurance  of  fifteen  thousand 
pounds  to  Kate  Aubrey.  The  devisor,  of  the  Dreddlington 
blood,  had  made  but  had  not  signed  the  will,  when  she  died,  and 
Gammon  entered  application  in  the  Ecclesiastical  Court,  which 
had  cognizance  of  probate  questions,  in  behalf  of  Tittlebat  Tit- 
mouse as  proven  nearest  of  kin,  for  letters  of  administration  on 
the  Stratton  estate.  The  first  outcome  of  this  proved  to  be  of 
vital  consequence  to  Titmouse,  who  had  now  become  the  hus- 
band of  the  wretched  Lady  Cecilia,  and  had  plunged  into  more 
extravagant  and  dissipated  courses  than  ever.  So  great  were 
the  excesses  of  this  spendthrift,  which  far  outran  his  large  in- 
come, that  he  negotiated,  through  the  aid  of  Gammon,  a  loan 
of  sixty  thousand  pounds  on  the  Yatton  property.  For  this  the 
cunning  solicitor  went  to  the  Jews,  and  in  further  strengthening 
the  security,  he  had  persuaded  Tagrag,  whose  business  had 
greatly  expanded  from  its  reputation  as  the  nursery  of  the  Tit- 
mouse comet-like  career,  to  indorse  the  bonds.  So  wild  were 
the  plunges  of  the  wastrel  as  time  went  on  that  Oily  Gammon, 
who  had  hoped  to  fatten  more  lavishly  on  the  spoils  of  Yatton, 
felt  that  he  must  make  good  his  claims  on  the  puppet  he  had 
conjured  into  life.  He  demanded  of  Titmouse  the  assignment 
of  a  rent  charge  of  two  thousand  pounds  a  year  on  the  Yatton 
property,  the  same  to  be  permanent  for  life  to  the  grantee.  His 
angry  protege  refused,  and  then  received  in  his  very  teeth  the 
terrible  word  ''bastard"  and  the  threat  that  Gammon  could 
unmake  him  as  easily  as  he  had  created  his  greatness.  Tit- 
mouse, promptly  cowed,  agreed  to  sign  the  document  as  soon 
as  it  could  be  prepared. 

The  disastrous  failure  of  the  most  important  of  Lord  Dred- 
dlington's  joint-stock  adventures — the  chairman  vanishing  with 
all  the  funds  on  the  very  night  he  had  given  the  old  nobleman  a 


2o6  TEN  THOUSAND  A  YEAR 

splendid  banquet — sent  him  in  dire  alarm  to  see  Gammon, 
through  whom  he  had  become  involved.  The  lawyer,  who  had 
left  his  apartments  for  a  few  moments,  returned  to  find  Lord 
Dreddlington  standing  over  a  parchment  spread  on  the  table, 
where  the  fatal  words  were  blazoned  **  rent  charge  of  two  thou- 
sand pounds  to  Oily  Gammon,  Esquire."  The  old  peer's  rigid 
face  and  angry  eyes  were  only  the  prelude  to  a  terrible  scene, 
and  he  questioned  the  crafty  rogue  as  to  the  meaning  of  that 
ominous  document.  Gammon,  swept  from  his  bearings  in  the 
hot  altercation,  fired  back  the  damning  fact  at  his  inquisitor,  and 
Lord  Dreddlington  fell  with  a  stroke  of  apoplexy,  as  all  that 
it  meant  shook  the  very  center  of  his  being.  The  lawyer  could 
have  cursed  himself  vehemently,  for  his  savoir  faire  had  twice — 
once  with  Kate  Aubrey,  now  with  Lord  Dreddlington — under 
the  impact  of  fierce  passion  broken  over  a  terrible  secret.  The 
old  nobleman  was  conveyed  to  his  house,  under  medical  at- 
tendance; and  when  he  recovered  a  little  his  wild  babble,  at  first 
incoherent,  shaped  itself  so  intelligently  as  to  convey  a  notion  of 
the  blasting  truth  to  Lady  Cecilia,  who  was  then  in  a  delicate 
condition.  Gammon  hastened  to  Dreddlington  House  and  in- 
sisted to  the  family  friends  that  no  heed  should  be  given  to  rav- 
ings bred  of  wandering  wits.  But  it  was  too  late  to  save  the 
poor  lady,  who,  passing  from  one  convulsion  to  another,  gave 
birth  to  a  still-born  babe  and  died  after  a  short  illness.  Her 
father,  a  ghastly  wreck  of  a  once  inordinate  pride  and  pomp, 
lingered  on  miserably,  while  his  ruin  was  completed  and  his 
property  shattered  by  the  successive  piercings  of  his  joint-stock 
bubbles. 

The  coils  were  tightening  about  Titmouse,  Quirk,  Gammon, 
and  the  crew  of  scoundrels  through  whom  they  had  operated. 
The  mills  of  the  gods  were  grinding.  Though  a  parliamentary 
committee  appointed  by  a  corrupt  Speaker  had  sustained  the 
claims  of  Titmouse  against  the  indictment  of  wholesale  bribery 
in  the  election,  the  suits  brought  by  Lord  De  La  Zouch  at  the 
York  Assizes  had  elicited  the  truth  and  mulcted  the  tools  of 
Gammon  with  heavy  fines  and  imprisonment,  promising  almost 
certainly  to  entangle  him  also  in  their  meshes.  The  convict 
Steggcrs  had  returned  on  a  tickct-of-leave,  and  was  primed  to 
reveal  how  the  original  suit  began,  which  would  involve  the 


SAMUEL   WARREN  207 

Saffron  Hill  solicitors,  who  could  expect  but  little  sympathy 
from  their  legal  confreres,  in  a  clearly  punishable  professional 
offense. 

But  worst  of  all  was  the  affair  of  the  Stratton  will,  which 
became  a  two-edged  sword,  at  a  hint  springing  from  Kate  Au- 
brey. She  had  forgotten  that  the  importunity  of  Gammon  at 
a  certain  momentous  interview  had  ended  with  his  indiscreet  plea 
that  it  lay  in  his  power  to  restore  Charles  Aubrey  to  the  owner- 
ship of  Yatton.  This  she  finally  mentioned  to  her  brother  one 
day  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Rumington.  The  quick-witted  solic- 
itor at  once  divined  some  criminal  mystery,  though  he  did  not 
express  the  conviction  then  to  Aubrey,  and  consulted  with  the 
Attorney- General,  Sir  Charles  Wolstenholme,  who  had  con- 
ducted the  Aubrey  trial.  That  luminary  urged  the  immediate 
pursuit  of  the  clue,  and  found  in  the  Stratton  will  case  the  surest 
avenue.  Mr.  Rumington  filed  a  caveat  against  the  issue  of 
letters  of  administration  applied  for  by  Gammon  in  behalf  of 
Tittlebat  Titmouse  as  next  of  legal  kin  in  the  Dreddlington 
stock.  The  case  was  thus  thrown  into  the  Ecclesiastical  Court, 
one  of  whose  functions  covered  probate  litigation,  and  whose 
proctors  were  invested  with  the  duty  of  making  the  most  minute 
research  into  questions  of  pedigree. 

It  can  be  easily  seen  how  nisi  prius  proceedings  never  could 
bore  deeply  into  the  subterranean  truth  of  facts  in  a  way  to 
match  the  mole -like  patience  of  these  trained  officials.  As  Sir 
Charles  put  it  to  Mr.  Rumington:  "This  case  will  be,  as  it  were, 
laid  out  on  the  rack  when  the  process  of  the  Ecclesiastical  Court 
is  applied  to  it.  You  have  an  examiner  on  the  spot,  all  secret 
and  mysterious,  proctors  ferreting  out  all  sorts  of  old  registers 
and  musty  documents  that  we  common  lawyers  never  should 
think  of.  'Tis  quite  in  the  way  of  their  business — ^births,  deaths, 
and  marriages,  and  everything  connected  with  them.  By  Jove ! 
if  there  be  a  flaw  you'll  discover  it  in  that  way."  Rumington 
wrote  to  Lord  De  La  Zouch,  then  in  France,  and  received  from 
him  full  authorization.  When  Gammon  learned  from  his  proc- 
tor, Quod,  that  Pounce,  one  of  the  most  famous  sleuthhounds  of 
the  court,  was  on  the  other  side,  and  that  the  famous  Dr.  Flare, 
whose  passion  for  truth  was  a  consuming  flame,  would  be  the 
examiner,  he  felt  a  shiver  of  despair. 


2o8  TEN  THOUSAND   A   YEAR 

"Curse  Lady  Stratton — her  will — her  policy — everything 
connected  with  the  old  creature,"  he  gnashed,  as  he  strode  up 
and  down  his  room,  when  he  was  alone.  **  Nothing  but  vexa- 
tion, disappointment,  and  danger  attends  every  move  I  make 
in  her  cursed  affairs.  Who  could  have  dreamed  of  this?  Move 
in  what  direction  I  may,  I  am  encountered  by  almost  insuper- 
able difficulties.  Why  take  this  particular  move?"  He  drew 
a  long  breath,  and  every  particle  of  color  fled  from  his  cheek. 
"Alas!  I  now  see  it  all.  Miss  Aubrey  has  betrayed  me.  She 
has  told  to  her  brother,  to  Rumington,  what  in  my  madness  I 
mentioned  to  her.  That  explains  it  all.  Yes,  you  beautiful 
fiend !  It  is  your  hand  that  has  begun  the  work  of  destruction,  as 
you  suppose." 

Gamxmon  felt  himself  the  most  miserable  of  mankind.  All 
other  anxieties  were,  however,  at  present  absorbed  in  one — the 
inquiry  in  the  Ecclesiastical  Court  then  pending.  If  that  in- 
vestigation should  be  adverse,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  in- 
stant flight  from  universal  scorn  and  execration.  Of  what  avail 
would  then  have  been  his  prodigious  anxieties,  his  complicated 
plans  and  purposes  ?  He  would  irretrievably  have  damned  him- 
self, and  for  what?  To  allow  the  stupid  wretch.  Titmouse,  to 
revel  for  a  season  in  unbounded  luxury  and  profligacy.  What 
single  personal  advantage  had  he  obtained,  taxed  to  the  utmost 
as  had  been  his  powerful  energies  for  the  past  three  years?  So 
he  pursued  his  bitter  rumination,  and  could  do  nothing  but  await 
in  fearful  suspense  the  outcome  of  the  mysterious  burrowing 
process,  moving  with  silent,  deathlike  certainty. 

Aubrey,  on  the  other  hand,  was  transported  with  joy  w^hen 
he  was  informed  of  this  new  action  in  progress,  its  origin,  and 
the  splendid  backing  of  his  friend  De  La  Zouch.  Titmouse,  who 
had  been  apprised  by  Gammon  of  the  attenuation  of  his  pros- 
pects, begged  with  cowardly  wailing  for  a  little  money  that  he 
might  fly  to  the  Continent ;  for,  in  spite  of  the  immense  sums  that 
had  passed  through  his  hands,  he  was  loaded  with  debt  and 
penniless.  He  who  had  been  the  Mephistopheles  of  the  base 
company,  was  waiting  in  his  rooms  at  Thaines  Inn  one  October 
night,  in  unspeakable  torture  of  mind,  the  arrival  of  the  messen- 
ger who  had  been  sent  to  obtain  a  copy  of  the  report,  which  he 
knew  was  about  due.     The  man  came,  and  a  single  glance  told 


SAMUEL  WARREN  209 

Gammon  his  doom.  It  had  been  officially  certified  that  the 
mother  of  Tittlebat  Titmouse,  in  marrying  his  father,  became 
a  bigamist,  making  her  subsequent  offspring  illegitimate;  and 
Gammon  knew  that  he  never  could  defend  himself  from  the 
damning  indictment  that  he  was  acquainted  with  this  before 
the  beginning  of  the  trial.  One  week  afterward  the  man  of 
powerful  intellect,  who,  if  his  conscience  and  heart  had  been 
equal  to  his  mental  vigor,  could  have  risen  to  almost  any  height 
of  distinction,  swallowed  prussic  acid  in  his  own  room. 

The  whole  nefarious  web  was  unraveled  much  more  swiftly 
than  it  had  been  spun.  Yatton  was  soon  put  in  possession  of  its 
rightful  owner  and  cleansed  from  the  relics  of  the  Comus-revel- 
ing  that  had  befouled  it.  Nor  was  it  long  before  the  death  of 
Lord  Dreddlington  made  Charles  Aubrey  Baron  Drelincourt, 
and  the  espousal  of  Kate  Aubrey  to  Geoffrey  Delamere  satisfied 
the  ambition  of  two  great  families  and  their  own  mutual  affec- 
tion. The  stupid  scamp.  Quirk,  was  struck  from  the  list  of 
attorneys  on  motion  before  the  King's  Bench.  Tittlebat  Tit- 
mouse, laden  with  immensity  of  debt,  the  obligation  for  which 
wiped  out  the  fortune  of  Tagrag,  was  compelled  to  spend  the  rest 
of  his  days  in  debtors'  prison,  where  he  lived,  however,  in  com- 
parative comfort  on  a  small  weekly  allowance  from  Lord  Drelin- 
court, till  debauchery  ended  a  worthless  career.  Within  four 
years  he  had  been  created  out  of  the  London  mud,  endowed 
with  a  great  income,  become  a  wonder  of  the  world's  metropofis, 
transformed  into  the  heir  of  a  great  title,  sullied  the  blood  and 
the  home  of  the  proudest  family  in  the  Kingdom,  and  then  sud- 
denly been  trampled  back  into  the  slime,  whence  he  had  emerged 
at  the  beck  of  a  magic  almost  Satanic. 


A.D.,  VOL.  xvn. — 14 


STANLEY  JOHN   WEYMAN 

(England,  1855) 
A  GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE   (1893) 

A  dramatic  version  of  this  novel  was  made  by  Miss  Harriet  Ford  and  was 
presented  with  great  success  in  1902,  the  hero's  role  being  assumed  by  Mr.  Kyrle 
Bellew.  This  novel  is  conceded  to  be  the  best  of  all  this  popular  author's  pro- 
ductions. 

(N  the  death  of  the  Prince  of  Condd  in  1 588  I  found 
myself,  at  forty  years,  penniless  and  without  a 
patron.  In  response  to  my  petition  to  the  King 
of  Navarre  I  received  an  appointment  to  wait 
on  him;  but  this  message  was  a  jest  of  some  of 
the  pages,  as  Monsieur  du  Mornay  explained  to 
me.  Seeing  my  despair  and  recalling  my  part  in 
the  affair  at  Brouage,  he  expressed  his  regret  and 
promised  to  bring  my  name  before  his  master. 
Passing  through  the  crowded  antechamber,  I  was  the  butt 
of  laughter  to  the  young  people  of  the  court ;  and  I  passed  near 
a  beautiful  young  lady  whom  I  had  noticed  on  my  arrival. 
With  a  scornful  glance  as  cruel  as  her  act,  she  drew  away  her 
skirts. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  I  bitterly,  stung  by  the  insult,  "such 
as  I  am  I  have  fought  for  France.  Some  day  you  may  learn  that 
there  are  viler  things  in  the  world — and  have  to  bear  them — than 
a  poor  gentleman." 

I  repented  my  words  quickly,  for  this  caused  a  shout  of 
coarse  laughter  and  coarser  gibes,  which  seemed  to  follow  me 
even  to  my  lodgings. 

However,  the  third  evening  after  that  Du  Mornay  and  the 
King  of  Navarre  came  secretly  to  my  lodging  to  offer  me  a  com- 
mission, which  involved,  not  public  employment,  but  an  adven- 


STANLEY  JOHN  WEYMAN  211 

ture,  dangerous  and  thankless,  because,  as  the  King  must  not 
appear  in  it,  I  could  not  be  publicly  rewarded  if  successful,  while 
I  must  look  only  to  myself  if  I  failed.  I  was  to  carry  off  from 
the  chateau  of  Chiz^,  where  she  was  confined,  the  ward  of  the 
powerful  Turenne,  Mademoiselle  de  la  Vire,  who  possessed 
certain  state  secrets,  convey  her  to  Blois,  and  place  her  under  the 
protection  of  Baron  de  Rosny.  Though  the  task  was  little  to 
my  liking,  I  accepted  it  and  received  money,  instructions,  and 
a  golden  token,  by  means  of  which  Mademoiselle  should  know 
me  for  an  accredited  messenger.  As  they  were  leaving,  the 
King  lifted  my  sword : 

"Use  it.  Monsieur  de  Marsac.  Use  it  to  the  last;  for  if  you 
be  captured  by  Turenne,  God  help  you!    I  cannot." 

"If  I  am  taken.  Sire,"  I  answered,  "my  fate  be  on  my  own 
head." 

I  hired  five  knaves  for  my  troop,  who  on  the  way  to  Chiz^ 
robbed  me,  by  a  trick,  of  ten  crowns  and  the  golden  token.  I 
passed  it  over  at  the  time,  but  at  Chiz^  I  rid  myself  of  the  leader, 
Fresnoy,  an  unscrupulous  villain,  and  had  no  more  difficulty 
with  the  others,  though  he,  escaping  with  the  token,  afterward 
made  me  much.  Despite  my  loss,  I  determined  to  go  on  and 
make  a  frank  explanation  of  the  lack  of  the  token  when  the  time 
came. 

At  Chiz^  I  communicated  with  Mademoiselle  and  arranged 
to  take  her  away  at  three  that  night.  I  found  her  ready  to  go 
at  the  time  appointed;  but  before  she  would  set  out  she  de- 
manded to  see  the  token,  and  when  I  confessed  to  its  loss,  she 
reproached  me  with  a  vehemence  and  bitterness  that  I  could  not 
understand,  till,  in  her  rage,  she  removed  her  mask  and  I  rec- 
ognized the  maid  of  honor  whom  I  had  unfortunately  exposed 
to  ridicule  in  the  King's  anteroom.  She  was  loath  to  give  up 
her  flight,  and  was  debating  whether  to  believe  my  story  about 
the  token,  when  a  noise  outside  her  room  settled  the  question, 
and  she  and  her  woman  Fanchette  followed  me. 

Mademoiselle  never  let  me  forget  that  in  her  eyes  I  was  a 
needy  adventurer  paid  to  escort  her  to  a  place  of  safety,  but 
without  any  claim  to  the  smallest  privilege  of  intimacy  or  equal- 
ity. On  the  third  day  we  reached  Blois  and  found  that  Mon- 
sieur de  Rosny,  on  account  of  the  excitement  consequent  on 


9X3  A   GENTLEMAN   OF  FRANCE 

the  murder  of  the  Duke  de  Guise,  had  retired  to  Rosny.  As 
all  the  inns  were  full,  I  could  do  no  better  than  take  Aladem- 
oiselle  to  my  mother's  lodging,  and  there  she  submitted  to  re- 
main for  the  nighte 

My  mother  was  very  ill  and  was  attended  only  by  a  young 
clerk,  Simon  Fleix;  and  to  his  charge  next  day  I  left  Madem- 
oiselle while  I  went  to  make  arrangements  for  going  to  Rosny. 
But  when  I  returned  I  learned  that  Mademoiselle  and  Fan- 
chette  had  gone  away  with  a  young  gallant  who  had  brought 
the  lost  token.  I  remained  beside  my  mother  till  next  morning, 
when  Simon  brought  me  a  knot  of  velvet  that  Mademoiselle  had 
worn,  on  which  were  stitched  the  letters  ^' A  moil     C,  d.  I.  F." 

I  went  to  the  house  in  front  of  which  he  had  found  it,  entered, 
and  ascended  the  stairs  to  the  room  from  the  window  of  which 
I  supposed  the  knot  had  been  thrown.  There  I  came  face  to 
face  with  a  beautiful  woman,  who  sprang  up  with  a  low  cry.  I 
explained  my  intrusion;  and  on  seeing  the  knot  of  velvet  she 
said  she  had  picked  it  up  in  the  street  and  had  dropped  it  from 
her  window,  hoping  her  husband  might  find  it  and  bring  it  to  her. 
After  learning  where  she  found  it,  I  obeyed  her  impatient  com- 
mand to  go.  On  the  stairs  I  met  a  handsome  man  whom  I  con- 
jectured to  be  the  husband.  Monsieur  de  Bruhl. 

I  went  immediately  to  the  corner  where  the  knot  had  been 
found  by  Madame  de  Bruhl;  and  I  saw,  fastened  to  a  bar  of  a 
grated  window  that  overlooked  the  garden,  a  small  white  knot 
made  after  the  fashion  of  the  one  in  my  pouch. 

I  returned  to  my  mother,  procured  a  nurse  for  her,  and  then 
took  three  horses  to  the  end  of  a  lane  near  the  house  I  had  dis- 
covered, where  I  left  them  in  charge  of  Simon  with  directions 
to  wait  till  a  certain  hour  for  me.  As  I  watched  the  front  of 
the  house,  the  door  opened  and  M.  de  Bruhl,  who  was,  I 
learned  afterward,  a  follower  of  Turenne,  came  out;  two  men 
who  accompanied  him  on  retiring  left  the  door  ajar.  I  stole  in 
and  reached  the  room  where  Mademoiselle  was;  and  her  joyful 
sob  when  I  spoke  to  her  assured  me  of  my  welcome. 

I  had  succeeded  only  in  breaking  one  panel  of  the  door  when 
the  noise  brought  the  guards.  There  were  four,  led  by  Fresnoy; 
but  I  had  a  position  of  vantage  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  Only 
two  of  them  could  attack  at  once;  and  while  the  steel  rang  and 


STANLEY  JOHN  WEYMAN  213 

clashed  the  women  worked  busily  to  enlarge  the  opening  in  the 
door.  A  sudden  cry  behind  me  made  me  withdraw  from  my 
vantage  to  see  whether  the  women  were  safe,  and  I  found  Fres- 
noy  upon  me,  with  the  superiority  of  position  his.  However, 
he  tripped  on  a  stool,  and  I  turned — to  find  the  room  empty! 

I  went  through  it,  and  down  through  the  servants'  quarters, 
and  at  last  found  myself  in  the  garden.  When  I  reached  the 
street  there  was  no  trace  of  Simon  and  the  horses,  nor  of  the 
women.  Supposing  they  had  been  decoyed  to  another  part  of 
the  house,  I  tried  to  reenter,  but  the  door  was  bolted.  For  four 
hours  I  rushed  frantically  from  place  to  place,  searching  every 
street  in  Blois  again  and  again,  then,  worn  out  in  body  and  mind, 
I  returned  to  my  mother's  lodgings. 

At  sunset  on  the  second  day  after  my  mother  died,  and  after 
her  funeral,  having  learned  nothing  to  enlighten  me  as  to  Mad- 
emoiselle's fate,  I  set  out  immediately  for  Rosny  to  carry  news 
of  my  ill -success.  What  I  knew  of  De  Rosny  gave  me  small  hope 
that  he  would  listen  with  indulgence  to  such  a  tale  as  mine;  and 
when  I  met  him  I  felt  that  popular  delusion  had  not  belied  him 
• — that  here  was  a  great  man.  I  plunged  desperately  into  my 
story,  to  w^hich  he  listened  with  frank  impatience  and  derisive  in- 
credulity. 

** Come!"  he  said  harshly.  ^' You  maintain  that  you  were  at 
the  King  of  Navarre's  court  lately;  you  will,  then,  have  no  ob- 
jection to  being  identified  by  some  I  have  here,  who  recently 
came  from  that  court." 

Though  sure  that  these  strangers  would  deny  me,  I  con- 
sented, and  was  led  to  the  next  room,  where  Madame  de  Rosny 
greeted  me;  then  M.  de  Rosny,  speaking  in  a  changed  voice,  bade 
me  look  around;  and  I  saw  before  me  Mademoiselle  de  la  Vire! 

"Here?"  I  stammered. 

"Here,  sir — thanks  to  the  valor  of  a  brave  man." 

She  was  so  radiantly  dressed,  she  looked  more  like  a  fairy 
than  a  woman,  being  of  small  and  delicate  proportions;  and 
her  softened  expression  made  her  seem  a  different  person. 

I  learned  that  the  uproar  of  the  fight  had  brought  a  serving- 
woman  whom  they  forced  to  conduct  them  out ;  at  the  lane  they 
came  upon  Simon,  and  after  waiting  some  minutes  for  me  they 
rode  off;  evidently  they  had  given  an  exaggerated  account  of  my 


214  A   GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE 

merits  and  services  to  rouse  in  M.  de  Rosny  such  a  wealth  of 
kindness  as  he  then  displayed  toward  me. 

It  may  be  conceived  how  delightful  it  was  to  me  to  be  re- 
ceived as  an  equal  by  so  famous  a  man ;  to  find  myself  once  more 
a  gentleman  with  an  acknowledged  place  in  the  world.  Only 
Mademoiselle's  attitude  rendered  my  ease  and  comfort  imper- 
fect. Knowing  that  I  must  appear  to  her  old,  poor,  and  ill- 
dressed,  I  was  careful  not  to  trespass  on  her  sense  of  obligation, 
and  was  hurt  to  find  that  her  gratitude,  so  evidently  expressed 
on  my  arrival,  was  fading.  After  the  second  day  she  resumed 
her  old  air  of  disdain.  One  day,  having  found  her  alone,  I  was 
about  to  withdraw  when  she  stopped  me. 

*'I  do  not  bite.  I  have  no  patience  with  you.  Monsieur  de 
Marsac!"    And  she  stamped  her  foot  on  the  floor. 

*'But,  Mademoiselle,  what  have  I  done?"  I  said  humbly. 

^' Done?"  she  repeated  angrily.  *' It  is  what  you  are.  Why 
are  you  so  dull,  sir?  Why  are  you  so  dowdy?  Why  do  you 
look  always  solemn  and  polite?    Why?    Why,  I  say?" 

She  looked  so  beautiful  in  her  fury  and  fierceness  that  I 
could  only  stare  at  her  in  astonishment. 

"You  say  nothing,  and  men  think  nothing  of  you.  You  go 
with  your  hat  in  your  hand,  and  they  tread  on  you.  They  speak, 
and  you  are  silent.     But  go,  leave  me!" 

At  last  M.  de  Rosny  and  I  set  out  for  La  Gauache  to  meet 
the  King  of  Navarre,  leaving  Mademoiselle  de  la  Vire  with 
Madame  de  Rosny.  At  the  inn  in  Blois  a  stranger  had  a  long 
consultation  with  my  companion;  and  on  M.  de  Rosny 's  vouch- 
ing to  this  gentleman  for  my  discretion  and  fidelity,  we  went  to 
the  Castle  of  Blois,  where,  in  a  mere  garret  reached  by  a  secret 
stair,  we  were  received  by  the  King  of  France.  Our  guide  was 
Monsieur  de  Rambouillet,  who  desired  his  master  to  accept 
needed  aid  from  the  King  of  Navarre  rather  than  from  the  Vi- 
comte  de  Turenne,  and  to  that  end  had  brought  about  the 
meeting  with  De  Rosny.  She  told  the  King  that  Turenne  had 
republican  ideas,  and  the  King  agreed  to  hesitate  no  longer  if 
the  proofs  that  Turenne  had  such  ideas  and  designs  were  laid 
before  him,  as  De  Rosny  promised  they  should  be  in  one  week. 

Before  we  left  I  was  presented  to  his  Majesty,  who  declared 
that  he  would  grant  me  a  commission  to  raise  twenty  men  for 


STANLEY  JOHN  WEYMAN  215 

his  service,  and  that  M.  de  Rambouillet  should  present  me  next 
morning  that  he  might  publicly  carry  out  his  intention.  I  was 
indignant  at  being  so  disposed  of,  but  M.  de  Rosny  assured  me 
that  I  should  be  serving  the  King  of  Navarre  in  accepting  such 
service.  Next  day  he  proceeded  to  La  Gauache;  his  man 
Maignan,  with  several  attendants,  set  out  for  Rosny  to  conduct 
Mademoiselle  de  la  Vire  to  Blois,  where  I  was  to  remain  and 
receive  her,  secure  her  a  secret  interview  with  the  King,  and 
guard  her  during  her  stay.  She  had,  it  seemed,  overheard  cer- 
tain plans  of  Turenne's  and  communicated  with  the  King  of 
Navarre;  but  before  an  interview  could  be  arranged  Turenne 
learned  of  the  matter  and  swept  her  off  to  Chiz^.  Her  evidence 
was  the  proof  of  Turenne's  designs  that  was  to  be  offered  to  the 
King. 

It  chanced  that  I  had  unfortunately  been  the  cause  of 
Madame  de  Bruhl's  learning  that  her  husband  was  infatuated 
with  Mademoiselle;  yet  she  sent  me  a  request  to  meet  her  in  a 
quiet  square  in  order  to  warn  me  of  her  husband's  intended 
treachery.  While  we  talked  I  saw,  standing  near  us,  Simon 
and  a  masked  woman  whom  I  recognized  as  Mademoiselle. 
They  stood  an  instant,  then  disappeared.  I  hastened  to  my 
lodgings,  receiving  a  message  on  the  way  from  Rambouillet  say- 
ing that  the  interview  must  take  place  at  once  or  not  at  all,  as 
the  other  party  was  very  active.  I  found,  however,  that  Maig- 
nan had  left  Mademoiselle  in  Simon's  care  at  my  lodging  while 
he  attended  to  the  horses,  and  Simon  had  taken  her  away. 

I  found  her  at  the  inn  where  I  had  stopped  with  De  Rosny. 
She  greeted  me  briefly,  and  then  maintained  an  embarrassing 
silence.  When  I  wished  to  take  her  where  she  would  be  well 
guarded,  she  declared  with  determination  that  she  would  remain 
where  she  was.  When  I  mentioned  her  interview  with  the 
King  she  declared  she  would  not  see  him. 

"No,  I  will  not,"  she  maintained,  in  a  whirl  of  anger,  scorn, 
and  impetuosity.  "I  have  been  made  a  toy  and  a  tool  long 
enough;  and  I  will  serve  others'  ends  no  more!" 

I  looked  at  her  in  dismay,  then  tried  arguments  and  en- 
treaties, with  no  result.  However,  her  woman,  Fanchette,  per- 
suaded her  to  remove  to  my  lodgings,  where  I  bestowed  her  in 
the  rooms  below  mine. 


2i6  A   GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE 

As  for  the  interview,  I  dared  not  wait  for  a  more  favorable 
mood.  I  went  to  consult  Rambouillet  and  found  that  he  had 
pursued  two  followers  of  the  King  who  had  deserted  and  gone 
to  Paris  to  join  the  League,  in  order  to  persuade  them,  if  possible, 
to  return. 

Realizing  that  under  such  conditions  the  King  must  be  ready 
to  grasp  any  means  of  support  for  his  tottering  throne,  my 
paramount  duty  seemed  to  be  to  gain  his  ear,  that  the  King  of 
Navarre  might  profit  by  the  first  impulse  of  self-preservation. 

With  difficulty  I  obtained  a  private  audience,  and  explained 
that  it  was  a  woman  who  possessed  the  evidence  against  Turenne, 
and  that  she  refused  to  come  or  speak.  So  he  consented  to  go 
to  my  lodging;  and  at  midnight  I  brought  him  safely  to  the 
house  and  led  him  to  Mademoiselle's  apartment,  which  con- 
sisted of  an  outer  and  an  inner  room.  In  the  outer  one  sat 
Madame  de  Bruhl,  and  Mademoiselle  had  shut  herself  in  the 
inner  one,  to  which  with  seeming  reluctance  she  admitted  the 
King. 

Madame,  having  warned  me  of  a  plot  of  her  husband's  to 
kill  me  next  day,  was  about  to  go  when  there  was  a  knocking 
without.  M.  de  Bruhl,  with  his  lackeys,  was  there,  accompanied 
by  the  Provost-Marshal  and  his  men,  who  were  come  to  arrest 
me  on  a  warrant  that  had  been  canceled  at  the  King's  command. 
Fortune  had  served  Bruhl  so  well  that  he  had  us  all  trapped.  I 
placed  the  King  and  the  women  in  the  inner  room,  put  Simon 
on  guard  in  the  outer  with  orders  to  bolt  the  door  after  me  and 
open  only  to  Maignan  and  his  men,  whom  he  should  send  with 
the  King  to  the  castle ;  then,  having  warned  the  Provost-Marshal 
that  his  warrant  had  been  canceled,  I  surrendered  on  condition 
that  he  should  not  allow  his  men  to  break  into  my  lodgings.  I 
called  to  Maignan,  who  had  been  above  and  so  cut  off  from  us, 
to  guard  the  door  till  M.  de  Bruhl  should  leave,  then  take  orders 
from  those  within. 

In  my  prison  that  night  I  had  engrossing  food  for  thought  in 
the  capricious  behavior  of  Mademoiselle,  to  which  it  seemed  to 
me  I  now  held  the  clue,  suspecting  with  as  much  surprise  as 
pleasure  that  only  one  construction  could  be  placed  upon  her 
attitude  toward  Madame  and  her  evident  concern  for  me  during 
the  scene  in  her  rooms.    In  the  morning  M.  de  Rambouillet 


STANLEY  JOHN  WEYMAN  217 

came  with  his  nephew,  Monsieur  d'Agen,  bringing  my  release 
and  the  news  that  the  King  had  reached  the  castle  in  safety, 
but  that  Bruhl,  with  Fresnoy  and  his  ruffians,  had  broken  in  and 
carried  away  Madame  de  Bruhl  and  Mademoiselle. 

With  Maignan,  Simon,  and  seven  men,  M.  d'Agen  and  I  set 
out  in  pursuit  of  Bruhl,  who  nad  five  hours'  start,  and  who,  we 
found,  was  making  for  the  Limousin,  where  he  might  rest  secure 
under  Turenne's  protection.  The  first  night  we  learned  that 
the  plague  was  ravaging  the  country  through  which  we  must 
pass;  and  I  saw  terror  of  it  spread  through  the  troop.  The 
second  evening  we  learned  from  a  peasant  that  the  party  we  were 
pursuing  had  passed  an  hour  before  sunset  and  had  gone  to 
spend  the  night  in  a  ruined  castle  two  leagues  beyond. 

We  found  the  castle  so  well  placed  and  defended  as  to  make 
an  attack  hopeless.  Bruhl's  party  was  still  there,  and  by  a 
trick  we  succeeded  in  entering  the  court,  where  we  settled  down 
to  besiege  those  who  held  the  second  tower. 

Fear  of  the  plague  in  my  troop  threatened  to  upset  my  plans; 
therefore  I  was  greatly  relieved  when  Fresnoy,  who  was  in  a 
state  of  panic  exceeding  that  of  my  men,  surrendered  on  con- 
dition of  life  and  liberty  for  him  and  his  men,  if  the  ladies  were 
given  up  in  safety.  Mademoiselle  was  locked  in  an  upper  room 
to  which  Bruhl  had  the  key,  and  he,  stricken  with  the  plague, 
was  tended  by  his  wife.  Forgetting  all  risk,  I  obtained  the  key 
and  had  Mademoiselle  released  and  taken  away  by  M.  d'Agen 
into  the  woods,  while  I  remained  with  Madame  until  her  hus- 
band died  the  second  day,  after  which  we  removed  to  a  separate 
camp,  where  we  spent  four  days;  then,  thinking  we  had  escaped 
contagion,  we  joined  our  friends  and  began  our  return  journey. 

We  had  not  gone  far  when  I  was  attacked  by  the  plague  and 
tried  in  vain  to  remove  myself  from  my  companions.  I  am  told 
that  for  more  than  a  month  I  lay  between  life  and  death;  and 
that,  but  for  Mademoiselle's  tendance,  which  never  failed  nor 
faltered,  I  must  have  died.  As  I  mended.  Mademoiselle  was 
much  in  my  company;  a  circumstance  which  would  have  ripened 
into  passion  the  affection  I  before  entertained  for  her,  had  not 
gratitude  and  a  nearer  observance  of  her  merits  already  elevated 
the  feeling  into  the  most  ardent  worship  that  even  the  youngest 
lover  ever  felt  for  his  mistress. 


2i8  A   GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE 

When  I  was  stronger,  though  Mademoiselle's  presence  grew 
more  and  more  necessary  to  my  happiness,  she  began  to  absent 
herself  on  long  walks.  One  day  I  went  to  meet  her  at  the 
stream,  and  when  she  had  crossed  on  the  stepping-stones,  I 
managed  to  retain  her  hand  in  mine ;  nor  did  she  resist,  though 
her  cheek  turned  crimson  and  her  eyes  fell. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  I  "that  stream  with  its  stepping- 
stones  reminds  me  of  the  stream  that  flows  between  us." 

"What  stream?"  she  murmured. 

"Are  you  not  young  and  gay  and  beautiful,  rich  and  well 
thought  of  at  court,  while  I  am  old  and  dull  and  grave,  an  un- 
successful  soldier  of  fortune?  That,  Mademoiselle,  is  the 
stream,  and  I  know  of  but  one  stepping-stone  that  can  bridge  it, 
and  that  is  Love.  Many  weeks  ago,  when  I  had  little  cause  to 
like  you,  I  loved  you;  I  loved  you  whether  I  would  or  not,  and 
without  thought  or  hope  of  return.  Now  that  I  owe  you  my 
life,  is  it  presumption  in  me  to  think  that  the  stream  may  be 
bridged?" 

"There  should  be  two  stepping-stones,"  she  murmured. 
"  Your  love,  sir,  and  mine.  And  because  I  love  you  I  am  willing 
to  cross  the  stream  and  live  beyond  it  all  my  life,  if  I  may  live 
my  life  with  you." 

After  that  our  days  were  passed  in  a  long  round  of  delight, 
till  I  grew  strong  and  news  came  of  great  events;  then  we  de- 
termined to  go  to  the  camp  before  Paris  and  throw  ourselves  on 
the  justice  of  the  King  of  Navarre,  Mademoiselle  placing  her- 
self under  Madame  Catherine's  protection.  When  we  reached 
Meudon,  Mademoiselle,  with  Madame,  Simon,  and  Maignan, 
went  to  the  lodgings  of  the  Princess  of  Navarre;  and  I  went  to 
the  King  of  Navarre,  who  declared  that  complaint  had  been 
made  that  I  had  abducted  the  ward  of  Turenne  from  Chiz6, 
and  in  answer  to  the  importunities  of  some  of  Turenne 's  followers 
who  accompanied  him,  gave  me  one  hour  in  which  to  remove 
myself  from  his  neighborhood. 

I  turned  away,  realizing  with  bitter  disappointment  that  our 
plan  had  failed;  and  then  with  Simon,  who  had  seen  Mademoi- 
selle safely  bestowed,  I  went  to  St.  Cloud,  where  the  King  of 
France  held  court.  M.  d'Agen  shared  his  lodging  with  me; 
but  M.  de  Rambouillet,  regarding   my  situation  as  desperate, 


STANLEY  JOHN  WEYMAN  219 

in  view  of  the  importance  of  Turenne's  friendship  to  both 
Kings,  advised  immediate  flight. 

But  the  next  day  I  took  my  place  in  the  presence-chamber 
and,  by  good  chance  following  a  party  of  three,  made  my  way 
into  the  King's  presence.  One  of  the  party  was  a  Jacobin  monk, 
who  presented  a  petition,  and,  when  the  King  had  read  it,  lean- 
ing forward  as  if  to  take  it,  so  swiftly  and  suddenly  that  none 
stirred  until  all  was  over,  struck  the  King  in  the  body  with  a 
knife.  In  the  indescribable  confusion  that  followed,  Simon 
dragged  me  out  and  hissed  in  my  ear  the  command  to  mount 
and  ride  to  the  King  of  Navarre,  to  tell  him  the  news  and  bid 
him  look  to  himself. 

"Be  the  first,"  he  said,  "and  Turenne  may  do  his  worst." 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  King,  when  I  gave  him  my  news, 
"for  your  care  for  me — ^not  for  your  tidings." 

I  felt  that  I  had  gained  a  footing,  scanty  and  perilous,  at 
court,  and  I  did  not  blame  the  King  of  Navarre  for  his  denial 
of  me,  nor  doubt  his  readiness  to  reward  me  should  occasion, 
which  I  had  now  furnished,  arise. 

I  was  conducted  to  Monsieur  la  Varenne's  lodging,  but  after 
one  day  was  forbidden  guests  and  assigned  to  a  small,  gloomy 
apartment,  where  M.  Turenne  came  and  offered  me  the  post  of 
Lieutenant-Governor  of  the  Armagnac  with  a  salary  of  twelve 
thousand  livres  a  year,  on  condition  of  my  giving  up  all  claim 
and  suit  to  the  hand  of  Mademoiselle. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you  consent,  sir?" 

"Never!" 

"  Have  you  thought  how  many  obstacles  lie  between  you  and 
this  little  fool  ?  What  it  will  be  to  have  me  against  you  in  this  ? 
Now,  what  do  you  say?" 

"The  same  as  before,"  I  answered  doggedly. 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  you !  I  took  you  for  a  rogue !  It 
seems  you  are  a  fool!" 

I  was  buried  in  the  darkened  gloom  of  my  prospects,  when 
M.  la  Varenne  came  to  conduct  me  to  the  King,  whom  I 
found  to  be  the  King  of  Navarre,  the  King  having  died  of  his 
wound. 

"Ha,  Monsieur  de  Marsac!"  said  he,  "you  are  the  gentle- 
man who  rode  so  fast  to  warn  me.     I  have  spoken  to  Monsieur 


220  A   GENTLEMAN   OF  FRANCE 

de  Turenne,  and  he  is  willing  to  overlook  the  complaint  he  had. 
Go  to  my  closet;  Rosny  knows  my  will  respecting  you." 

Then  Rosny  gave  me  the  patent  that  Turenne  had  offered, 
telling  me  that  it  was  intended  for  me,  but  he  had  wagered  five 
hundred  crowns  with  Turenne  that  he  could  not  bribe  me.  He 
sent  me  to  a  room  where  I  found  Mademoiselle  de  la  Vire.  As 
I  stood  before  her  in  her  court  dress,  a  sense  of  unworthiness 
in  presence  of  her  grace  and  beauty  came  full  upon  me  and  I 
stood  tongue-tied  before  her. 

*'Is  anything  the  matter,  sir?''  she  muttered  at  last,  her  face, 
grown  rosy  at  my  entrance,  now  pale. 

''No,  Mademoiselle,"  I  said.  "But  I  do  not  see  the  lady 
to  whom  I  came  to  address  myself,  and  whom  I  have  seen  in  far 
other  garb  than  yours,  wet,  weary,  and  disheveled,  in  danger  and 
in  flight.     Her  I  have  served  and  loved.     But  I  do  not  see  her." 

"Indeed!"  she  said  with  a  sudden  brightness  and  quickness. 
"It  is  a  pity  your  love  should  be  given  elsewhere,  since  it  is  the 
King's  will  that  you  marry  me." 

"Ah,  Mademoiselle,"  I  said.     "But  you?" 

"It  is  my  will  too,  sir,"  she  answered,  smiling  through  her 
tears. 


-  -   i 


EDITH    WHARTON 

(United  States,  1862) 
THE  HOUSE   OF  MIRTH   (1905) 

"The  heart  of  the  wise  is  in  the  house  of  mourning;  but  the  heart  of  fools 
is  in  the  house  of  mirth." — Ecclesiastes  vii,  4.  In  this  novel  Mrs.  Wharton 
depicts  the  emptiness  and  foolishness  of  the  life  of  the  idle  rich,  the  so-called 
"Four  Hundred"  of  New  York  society,  showing  in  particular  its  demoraUzing 
effect  upon  a  beautiful  and  brilliant  girl,  who,  however,  is  saved  from  its  effects, 
though  at  the  cost  of  position,  beauty,  health,  and  life  itself,  by  the  influence 
of  a  love  that  in  her  folly  she  had  rejected.  The  novel  was  dramatized  in 
1907,  with  only  a  moderate  degree  of  success. 

[E  hete  noire  of  Lily  Bart's  existence  was  dinginess. 
Until  the  age  of  nineteen,  when  her  father  died, 
ruined  by  Mrs.  Bart's  extravagance,  she  had 
dwelt  in  an  atmosphere  of  refinement  and  even 
of  splendor.  Mrs.  Bart  was  famous  among  her 
friends  for  the  unlimited  effect  she  produced  on 
limited  means,  and  she  had  brought  up  her 
daughter  in  the  faith  that,  whatever  it  cost,  one 
must  have  a  good  cook  and  be  "  decently  dressed." 
If  Mr.  Bart  objected  to  the  expense  involved,  his  wife  asked 
him  whether  he  expected  them  to  "live  like  pigs." 

Lily  knew  some  persons,  her  cousins,  who  "lived  like  pigs." 
They  inhabited  dingy  houses  in  a  quarter  of  the  city  no  longer 
aristocratic,  and  had  slatternly  parlor-maids  who  said  "I'll  go 
and  see"  to  visitors  calling  at  an  hour  when  all  right-minded 
persons  are  conventionally  if  not  actually  "out."  And  these 
cousins  were  rich,  so  that  Lily  imbibed  the  idea  that  those  who 
lived  like  pigs  did  so  from  choice. 

Mrs.  Bart's  resentment  at  her  husband  for  dying  and  leav- 
ing them  only  a  pittance  to  contend  with  this  ever-encroaching 
"dinginess,"  was  communicated  to  Lily  in  an  impersonal  form. 
The  girl  believed  she  had  a  right  to  the  elegancies  of  life,  and 


222  THE   HOUSE   OF  MIRTH 

that  it  was  a  cruel  injustice  to  her  that  she  had  been  deprived  of 
them.    To  regain  them  became  the  aim  of  her  existence. 

Mrs.  Bart  had  impressed  upon  her  daughter  that  in  her 
beauty  lay  the  sole  means  of  restoring  the  family  fortunes.  Lily 
regarded  this  treasure  as  something  apart  from  herself,  for  the 
most  effective  use  of  which  she  was  sacredly  responsible.  Ac- 
cordingly, she  faithfully  abetted  her  mother's  efforts  to  find  an 
eligible  husband  for  her.  To  this  end  they  traveled  abroad. 
But  after  two  years  of  unsuccessful  hunting,  Mrs.  Bart  returned 
home  in  a  deep  disgust,  from  which  she  soon  died.  Her  last 
adjuration  to  her  daughter  was  to  escape  from  dingincss. 

"  Don't  let  it  creep  on  you  and  drag  you  down,  as  it  has  done 
to  me.  Fight  your  way  out  of  it  somehow — you're  young  and 
can  do  it." 

Lily  contrived  to  get  a  place  as  companion  with  the  richest 
and  least  dingy  of  her  relatives,  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Pcniston,  a  child- 
less widow.  This  gave  Lily  the  standing-room  she  desired, 
opening  to  her  the  gates  of  society  and  securing  a  permanent 
establishment  within  them.  Mrs.  Peniston  gave  her  no  active 
aid  in  this  effort.  Indeed,  she  kept  her  niece  in  a  state  of  anxious 
dependence  by  giving  her  unexpected  presents  instead  of  a  reg- 
ular allowance,  thereby  securing  bursts  of  gratitude  from  the 
girl  instead  of  undemonstrative  affection.  Accordingly,  Lily 
was  forced  to  spend  all  her  slender  income  upon  dress.  Grad- 
ually she  became  involved  in  debt  to  her  dressmakers  and  milli- 
ners, satisfying  them  by  small  payments  on  account. 

Under  these  circumstances  Lily  discovered  after  years  of 
effort  that  she  was  using  all  her  resources,  her  brains  and  her 
beauty,  in  maintaining  her  foothold  in  the  social  world,  and 
had  as  yet  made  no  progress  toward  securing  a  permanent  es- 
tablishment. Younger  and  plainer  girls  had  been  married  off 
by  dozens,  and  she  was  nine-and-twenty,  and  still  Miss  Bart. 

Lily  was  on  her  way  to  Bellomont,  the  country  place  on  the 
Hudson  of  the  Trenors.  She  knew  she  had  been  invited  to  take 
Gus  Trenor  off  his  wife's  hands.  Poor  Gus,  after  grubbing  all 
day  in  Wall  Street,  demanded  feminine  sympathy,  and  that 
preferably  from  his  wife,  whose  interest  in  men  ceased  with  her 
conquest  of  them. 

Lily,  coming  from  Tuxedo,  missed  connection  for  Bellomont 


EDITH  WHARTON  223 

at  the  Grand  Central  Station  in  New  York,  and  there  was  an 
hour  of  waiting  for  the  next  train.  Lawrence  Selden  just  ar- 
riving from  the  country  saw  her  standing  irresolute,  and  resolved 
to  give  her  the  opportunity  of  recognizing  him.  By  virtue  of 
his  family  connection  he  could  enter,  whenever  he  chose,  the 
charmed  circle  of  society.  Yet  because  he  possessed  only  a 
modest  competence  he  realized  that  he  was  regarded  as  ineligible 
by  Lily  Bart.  He  knew  now  that  if  she  did  not  wish  to  meet 
him  she  would  contrive  to  elude  him;  and  it  amused  him  to  put 
her  skill  to  the  test.  Besides,  he  had  always  been  attracted  by 
the  bright,  beautiful  girl.  They  had  in  common  an  esthetic 
rather  than  epicurean  desire  for  the  elegancies  of  life:  he  had 
remained  a  bachelor  to  gratify  it;  she  was  seeking  a  husband 
for  the  same  purpose.  He  knew  that  if  he  were  rich  he  would 
propose  to  her;  and  she  feared  that,  being  only  of  independent 
means,  he  might  be  foolish  enough  to  do  so,  and  that  her  head 
would  compel  her  to  reject  him,  to  the  regret  ever  afterward  of 
her  foolish  heart. 

Her  soul  was  disgusted  with  the  price  she  was  about  to  pay 
for  holding  her  place  in  society.  Fate  offered  her  a  short  res- 
pite, and  her  heart  wilfully  decided  on  a  holiday.  Selden,  the 
slender  intellectual  lawyer,  was  a  refreshing  contrast  to  Trenor, 
the  stout,  red-faced,  sensual  broker.  So  she  came  eagerly  for- 
ward as  she  noted  him  approaching  through  the  crowd. 

"How  nice  of  us  to  come  to  our  mutual  rescue!  Sit  down 
and  talk  to  me." 

He  was  amused  at  the  sudden  intimacy.  "Sitting  out  a 
train  in  a  crowded  station  is  like  sitting  out  a  cotillon  in  a  ball- 
room," he  said.  "Come,  let's  go  to  the  conservatory — say 
Sherry's." 

"Everybody  going  through  town  will  be  there.  Let's  hunt 
up  a  quieter  place,"  said  Lily. 

They  went  out  to  the  Avenue  and  walked  down  it.  At  the 
comer  of  a  street  in  the  thirties  she  paused.  "Isn't  there  a 
place  down  one  of  these  side  streets  where  one  could  get  a  cup 
of  tea?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  down  this  one,  at  my  rooms  in  the  Benedict,"  answered 
Selden,  naming  a  well-known  bachelor  apartment-house.  He 
paused. 


224  THE   HOUSE   OF  MIRTH 

"Well?"  she  said,  inviting  him  to  complete  the  invitation. 
Her  heart  was  surely  taking  a  holiday. 

"Won't  you  run  up  and  take  a  cup?  It's  a  brand  I'm  par- 
ticularly proud  of — and  you  won't  meet  any  bores." 

**Why  not?    It's  too  tempting.     I'll  take  the  risk." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  dangerous,"  he  said.  In  truth,  he  never  had 
liked  her  so  well  as  at  that  moment.  He  knew  that  she  had 
accepted  his  offer  without  afterthought:  he  never  could  be  a 
factor  in  her  calculation.  He  saw  the  real  Lily  Bart  in  the 
spontaneity  of  her  consent — a  natural,  genuine  woman. 

While  he  brewed  the  tea  she  sank  with  a  sigh  into  one  of  his 
shabby,  comfortable  leather  armchairs. 

"How  delicious  to  have  a  place  like  this  all  to  one's  self! 
What  a  miserable  thing  it  is  to  be  a  woman!" 

"I  know  a  girl  who  lives  in  a  flat,"  said  Selden;  "my  cousin, 
Gerty  Farrish." 

"  But  she  deliberately  keeps  out  of  society." 

"She  is  poor,"  said  Selden. 

"So  am  I,  but  we  are  different  in  nature.  Poverty  makes 
her  free,  and  enslaves  me.  I  envy  her.  She  can  arrange  her 
furniture  to  please  herself.  If  I  could  only  do  over  aunt's 
drawing-room,  I  know  I  should  be  a  better  woman." 

"Is  it  so  very  bad?"  he  inquired. 

She  smiled  at  him  across  her  tea-cup.  "That  shows  how 
seldom  you  come  there.     Why  don't  you  come  oftener?" 

"  When  I  do  come  it's  not  to  look  at  Mrs.  Peniston's  furniture. 
And  if  I  don't  come  oftener  it  is  because  you  have  men  enough 
about  you  already." 

"Plenty  of  prigs  and  bounders,  but  few  men.  I  need  a 
friend,  one  who  isn't  on  guard  with  me  for  fear  I  wish  to  marry 
him,  and  against  whom  I  do  not  have  to  be  on  guard." 

"And  have  you  no  good  friends  among  women?" 

"No;  they  are  all  getting  tired  of  me;  they  are  beginning  to 
say  I  ought  to  marry." 

"And  why  don't  you?  Isn't  marriage  your  vocation? — ^what 
all  the  girls  in  your  set  are  brought  up  for?" 

"  Ah,  I  see  you  are  a  friend,  one  brave  enough  to  tell  me  dis- 
agreeable truths.  Yes,  I  must  marry,  and  marry  a  very  rich 
man.    With  my  expensive  tastes  I  could  not  support  myself  in 


EDITH  WHARTON  225 

freedom,  as  Gerty  Farrish  does.''  In  evidence  of  her  luxurious 
habits,  she  opened  a  box  of  cigarettes  on  the  table. 

''May  I?"  she  inquired,  and,  upon  his  nod,  she  lighted  one. 
She  walked  about  the  room  looking  at  the  books,  with  critical 
puffs  of  her  cigarette. 

"You  collect,  don't  you — ^you  know  about  first  editions?" 
she  inquired. 

*'A  little  too  much  for  my  slender  purse." 

*'You  know  about  Americana?  Please  give  me  some 
'points'  as  if  I  were  qualifying  for  an  expert." 

"Like  Percy  Gryce,  for  instance?" 

She  blushed  slightly.  "Yes,  my  keen-sighted  and  plain- 
spoken  friend.  It  will  help  me  to  make  an  impression  upon 
him." 

Selden  looked  at  her  face  and  gown  critically:  "My  dear 
Miss  Bart,  you  have  an  attractive  title-page,  and  are  bound  in 
admirable  style,  but  if  ISlr.  Gryce  is  like  most  collectors  he  will 
not  care  for  the  contents.  Wouldn't  it  be  better  to  impress  a 
man  who  does  care  for  these?" 

"Such  men  stay  away  from  Mrs.  Trenor's  house-parties. 
Although  in  truth  Mrs.  Dorset  intimated  that  you  would  come 
to  this  one.     Shall  you?" 

"Well,  I  had  not  intended  to,  but  I  may — ^I  sometimes  tan- 
talize myself  by  visiting  an  auction,  even  when  not  able  to  bid." 

They  laughed  for  pure  pleasure  over  their  understanding. 

She  refused  to  let  him  accompany  her  to  the  station.  "No; 
good -by  here,  please.    And  don't  forget  to  return  my  call." 

Her  prudence  returned  to  her,  as  it  always  did  after  an 
escapade,  and  to  avoid  the  chance  of  meeting  an  acquaintance 
she  walked  down  the  stairs  instead  of  taking  the  elevator.  Upon 
the  first  flight  she  encountered  a  scrubwoman  at  work.  Gath- 
ering up  her  skirt,  Lily  brushed  passed  her,  and  the  woman 
looked  at  her  significantly.  Lily  was  annoyed.  Did  women 
visit  Selden?  With  an  impulse  of  loyalty  she  defended  him  in 
her  mind.  Well,  it  was  not  by  his  encouragement,  anyway. 
Look  at  Mrs.  Dorset,  who  showed  her  infatuation  for  him  to  all 
except  her  blindly  devoted  husband.  How  coldly  Selden  al- 
ways treated  her! 

As  Lily  came  out  upon  the  sidewalk  she  ran  against  a  small, 
A.D.,  VOL.  xvn. — 15 


226  THE  HOUSE   OF  MIRTH 

glossy-looking  man,  of  the  blond  Jewish  type,  who  raised  his 
hat  with  a  surprised  exclamation. 

"Miss  Bart?    Well— of  all  people!    This  is  luck." 

''Oh,  Mr.  Rosedale — ^how  are  you?"  she  said,  with  an  in- 
voluntary look  of  annoyance,  followed  by  a  smile. 

In  revenge  for  the  look  he  took  the  broadest  advantage 
possible  of  the  smile. 

"Up  to  town  for  a  little  shopping,  I  suppose?"  he  said,  in  a 
tone  that  had  the  familiarity  of  a  touch. 

Miss  Bart  shrank  from  it,  and  in  confusion  was  led  by  the 
query  into  a  foolish  and  unnecessary  falsehood.  Instead  of 
acknowledging  the  fact  that  she  had  been  having  a  cup  of  tea 
with  Selden  in  a  careless  tone,  which  would  have  disarmed 
Rosedale,  unfamiliar  with  social  usages,  she  said : 

"Yes,  I  came  up  to  see  my  dressmaker.  I  am  on  my  way 
to  catch  the  train  to  the  Trenors." 

"Ah,  I  didn't  know  there  was  a  dressmaker  in  the  Benedict. 
You  see,  I  own  the  building.  But  come,  let  me  take  you  to  the 
station." 

"Oh,  no,  I  won't  trouble  you.  Here  comes  a  hansom." 
And,  heedless  of  his  protestations,  she  hailed  the  cabman,  en- 
tered the  vehicle,  and  called  out  a  breathless  order. 

Mr.  Rosedale  was  a  social  "climber"  who  had  ingratiated 
himself  with  the  men  of  Lily's  set  by  putting  them  in  the  way  of 
making  money.  As  yet  the  women  only  tolerated  him,  and 
Lily  had  even  snubbed  him.  Now  she  realized  that  she  had 
put  herself  in  his  power.  Accordingly,  she  resolved  to  lose  no 
time  in  firmly  establishing  her  social  position  by  marriage. 
Looking  through  the  parlor  car,  she  saw  Percy  Gryce,  the 
collector  of  Americana,  pretending  to  read  a  paper.  She 
guessed  that  he  had  spied  her,  and  was  too  shy  to  come  up  to 
her.  It  therefore  rested  with  her  to  make  the  approach.  So 
she  went  forward,  and,  as  she  passed  him,  seized  the  occasion 
of  an  opportune  lurch  to  grip  the  back  of  his  chair  to  steady 
herself.  He  rose,  blushing;  another  lurch  seemed  to  throw  her 
almost  into  his  arms. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Gryce,  is  it  you?  I  was  trying  to  find  the  porter 
and  get  some  tea." 

He  pressed  her  to  take  his  chair,  and  went  on  the  errand.    Re- 


EDITH  WHARTON  227 

turning  with  the  tea,  he  stood  by  her  side  while  she  sipped  it. 
At  the  next  station  the  occupant  of  a  neighboring  chair  left  the 
car,  and  Lily  and  Mr.  Gryce  traveled  together  to  Bcllomont. 

She  put  him  at  ease  by  inquiring  about  his  Americana. 
** Points"  that  she  had  elicited  from  Scldcn  now  were  of  great 
advantage,  and  long  before  they  arrived  at  Bcllomont  he  had 
firmly  resolved  to  ignore  the  stories  about  her  fortune-hunting, 
set  afloat,  he  was  convinced,  by  shallow  women  jealous  of  her 
profound  intellectual  attainments,  and  to  ask  her  to  join  with 
him  as  his  wife  in  the  fascinating  pursuit  of  his  hobby. 

Mrs.  Trenor  observed  to  Lily  the  next  morning  that  Gwen 
Van  Osburgh,  a  stupid,  doll-faced  girl  of  enormous  wealth,  was 
making  a  ''dead  set"  at  Percy  Gryce.  Lily  thanked  Mrs.  Tre- 
nor, but  hinted  that  she  had  Percy  safely  hooked. 

"Oh,  Lily,"  cried  Mrs.  Trenor,  "do  go  slowly!  It  is  too 
fine  a  chance  to  be  lost.  Above  all  things,  don't  smoke.  His 
mother  has  brought  him  up  to  abhor  such  things  in  women." 

After  dinner  Lily  went  out  on  the  terrace  and  stood  looking 
across  the  darkling  Hudson.  A  man  approached  her  from  be- 
hind. "It  is  Gryce,"  she  thought,  turned  to  reward  him  with 
a  smile,  and  saw  Lawrence  Selden. 

"You  see  I  did  come  to  the  auction,"  he  said;  but  before  she 
had  time  to  answer,  Mrs.  Dorset,  who  had  followed  him  in  turn, 
stepped  between  them  with  a  little  gesture  of  appropriation. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  Lily,  knowing  that  Mr.  Gryce 
was  a  strict  churchman,  had  let  it  fall  in  her  conversation  with 
him  that  she  was  a  regular  attendant  at  religious  services.  Ac- 
cordingly, she  rose  early,  tore  herself  from  the  lingering  enjoy- 
ment of  her  breakfast  tray,  and  had  her  maid  lay  out  her  gray 
gown  and  borrow  a  prayer-book  of  Mrs.  Trenor. 

Then  a  fit  of  rebellion  seized  her.  She  longed  above  every- 
thing for  a  long  walk  through  the  woods  with  Lawrence  Selden, 
and  began  to  plan  to  capture  him  for  the  day.  She  knew  that 
this  would  mortally  offend  Mrs.  Dorset,  whose  favor  it  was 
essential  for  her  to  retain.  Why,  Mr.  Dorset,  whom  dyspepsia 
had  made  a  cynic,  had  declared  that  she  was  a  "brick,"  the 
"only  good  fellow  in  their  crowd,"  and  that  if  his  wife  persisted 
in  her  intention  to  drag  him  to  Europe  they  would  have  to 
take  Lily  along  for  his  company. 


228  THE   HOUSE   OF  MIRTH 

While  she  lay  in  bed,  distracted  between  discretion  and  in- 
clination, the  omnibus  provided  for  church -going  guests  drove 
off  with  Percy  Gryce  as  its  solitary  occupant.  Lily  looked 
through  the  bHnds  and  saw  his  countenance  rendered  even  more 
solemn  than  its  wont  by  the  gloom  of  disappointment. 

Then  her  practical  sense  came  to  the  fore.  She  rose,  hastily 
dressed,  and  set  off  with  the  intention  of  walking  rapidly  through 
the  woods  to  church.  As  she  left  the  house  she  passed  between 
Mrs.  Dorset  and  Selden  holding  a  lively  conversation.  Entering 
the  woods,  she  began  ruminating  upon  the  possibility  that  Mrs. 
Dorset,  and  not  herself,  was  the  attraction  that  had  drawn  the 
popular  but  wary  bachelor  to  Bellomont.  She  slackened  her 
pace,  and  soon  saw  Selden,  walking  rapidly  to  overtake  her.  In 
her  joy  she  forgot  every  mercenary  consideration. 

Lily  sat  down  upon  a  ledge  of  rock  commanding  an  extensive 
view,  and  Selden  reclined  at  her  feet.  For  a  long  time  neither 
spoke.  He  had  no  wish  to  make  her  talk;  her  quick-breathing 
silence  seemed  a  part  of  the  quiet  harmony  of  things.  But  Lily 
was  throbbing  inwardly  with  conflicting  emotions.  Love  had 
come  to  her  for  the  first  time  in  all  her  varied  "romantic" 
experiences  and  relations  with  men.  At  last  she  ended  the 
silence : 

"I  have  broken  an  engagement  for  you;  have  you  done  as 
much  for  me?" 

*'  My  only  engagement  at  Bellomont  was  with  you." 

"  But  your  engagements  in  New  York — ^your  business  ?  You 
should  not  have  endangered  that  success  which  everybody 
prophesies  for  you  because  of  a  request  from  such  a  bankrupt  in 
life  as  I." 

'*My  idea  of  success  is  personal  freedom — freedom  from 
the  deprivations  of  poverty  and  the  no  less  galling  obligations 
of  wealth.  To  keep  a  republic  of  the  spirit — that's  what  I  call 
success." 

"Oh,  I  wish  you  could  lead  me  into  that  blessed  country!" 

"Oh,  no!  you  will  marry  a  millionaire,  and  it  is  as  hard  for 
the  rich  to  get  into  the  republic  as  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 

"  What  an  outcast  you  think  I  am  doomed  to  be !  Why  do 
you  make  the  lot  I  have  chosen  seem  hateful  to  me,  if  you  have 
nothing  to  give  me  instead?" 


EDITH   WHARTON  229 

*'No,  I  have  nothing  to  give  you  instead;  if  I  had,  it  should 
be  yours,  you  know.'* 

She  dropped  her  face  on  her  hands.  Selden  saw  that  she 
wept.  Even  her  weeping  was  an  art,  he  thought,  and  he  con- 
tinued bitterly: 

"Isn't  it  natural  that  I  should  try  to  belittle  all  the  things  I 
can't  offer  you?" 

She  lifted  her  face  and  returned  gently:  *'But  you  belittle  me 
in  being  sure  they  are  the  only  things  I  care  for." 

*'But  they  are  the  essential  things,  are  they  not?" 

"Ah,  for  all  your  preaching,  you  are  as  great  a  coward  as  I 
am;  for  you  would  not  have  made  your  declaration  if  you  hadn't 
been  sure  of  my  refusing  it.  Be  honest.  Do  you  wish  me  to 
marry  you?" 

"Yes,  but  only  if  that  is  also  your  honest  wish." 

She  replied  simply:  "I  shall  look  hideous  in  dowdy  clothes, 
Lawrence;  but  I  can  trim  my  own  hats." 

They  sat  for  a  while  in  silence,  infolded  in  each  other's  arms. 
Then  down  upon  the  road  beneath  them  Lily  saw  the  omnibus 
creeping  home  from  church,  and  she  tore  herself  away  from 
Selden.     "We  must  go  home!"  she  exclaimed. 

He  flushed,  and  then  drew  a  silver  case  from  his  pocket,  and 
slowly  lighted  a  cigarette.  It  seemed  to  him  necessary  to  pro- 
claim by  some  habitual  act  that  he  also  had  recovered  his  hold 
on  the  actual. 

He  held  out  the  cigarette-case  to  her,  but  she  refused  it. 
"No,  Gryce  objects  to  women  smoking,"  she  said. 

Lily  satisfactorily  explained  to  Gryce  her  absence  from 
church  and  successfully  concealed  from  him  the  fact  that  she 
smoked  cigarettes  in  his  absence;  but  she  could  not  hide  from 
his  mother  the  knowledge  that  she  played  bridge  for  high  stakes, 
for  the  women  from  whom  she  borrowed  money  to  pay  her 
losses  could  not  forbear  airing  their  generosity  in  the  old  woman's 
presence.  So  the  collector  of  Americana  proposed  to  Gwen 
Van  Osburgh  instead,  and,  being  promptly  accepted,  left  Mr. 
Roscdale  as  Lily's  sole  matrimonial  opportunity. 

Gus  Trenor  had  for  some  time  been  urging  her  to  cultivate 
the  socially  ambitious  Jew. 

"I  wish  you  would  persuade  Judy  to  invite  him  to  dine,"  he 


230  THE  HOUSE   OF  MIRTH 

said  to  Lily;  *'thcn  I  could  get  almost  anything  out  of  him. 
The  man  is  mad  to  know  the  people  who  don't  wish  to  know 
him,  and  there's  nothing  he  won't  do  for  the  first  woman  that 
takes  him  up." 

"  But  Jack  Stepney  did  try  to  take  him  about,  and  the  women 
voted  him  impossible,"  Lily  had  objected. 

"  Oh,  hang  it ! — because  he's  fat  and  shiny,  and  has  a  shoppy 
manner !  Well,  a  few  years  from  now  he'll  be  in  it  whether  we 
want  him  or  not,  and  then  he  won't  be  giving  away  a  half-a- 
million  tip  for  a  dinner.  It's  a  clever  woman  that  will  be  civil 
to  him  now." 

This  conversation  first  suggested  to  Lily,  who  was  in  dire 
financial  straits,  a  way  of  getting  money,  not  through  Mr.  Rose- 
dale — to  seek  a  tip  from  whom  she  could  not  demean  herself — 
but  through  Trenor  himself.  In  her  ignorance  of  the  ways  of 
Wall  Street,  she  supposed  that  a  broker  like  Gus  Trenor  could 
make  money  for  another  as  a  friendly  transaction  without  loss 
or  risk  to  himself.  She  knew  that  Gus  was  fond  of  her  in  a  way 
that  was  close  to  the  danger-line.  His  wife  was  her  best  friend, 
and  Lily  looked  upon  infidelity  to  her  in  the  slightest  degree  as 
shocking  and  degrading.  Yet  she  closed  her  mind  to  all  these 
possible  results,  and,  placing  a  pitiful  sum  of  money,  an  eve- 
ning's winnings  at  bridge,  in  Trenor's  hands,  she  asked  him  to 
"invest"  it  for  her  in  stocks.  In  the  course  of  a  year  Trenor 
returned  her  nine  thousand  dollars,  ostensibly  as  "profits." 
He  became  more  offensive  in  his  actions  toward  her,  so  that  she 
began  to  avoid  him.  Finally  he  lured  her  to  his  house  in  the 
city  by  sending  her  an  invitation  in  his  wife's  name  to  call  one 
evening.  His  wife  was  away.  Lily  attempted  to  leave,  but  he 
stood  between  her  and  the  door. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  demanded,  with  firm  voice. 

"I  want  to  know  just  where  you  and  I  stand,"  said  Trenor. 
"  Hang  it !  the  man  who  pays  for  the  dinner  is  usually  allowed  to 
have  a  seat  at  the  table." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean — ^but  I  can't  stay  here  alone 
with  you  at  this  hour." 

"  Gad,  that's  rich,  from  a  girl  who  goes  to  bachelors'  rooms 
fast  enough  in  broad  daylight!" 

Rosedale  had  spoken,  then;  men  talked  thus  of  her. 


EDITH  WHARTON  231 

"Yes,"  he  continued,  "you  must  have  known  I  would  ex- 
pect to  be  paid  some  day." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  I  owe  you  money? "  she  faltered.  "  Why, 
you  only  invested  mine  for  me." 

"Oh,  hang  the  money!  You're  welcome  to  it  all,  and  ten 
times  more.  I  am  only  asking  for  a  kind  word  from  you. 
Don't  you  see  I'm  mad  about  you!" 

Over  and  over  her  the  sea  of  humiliation  broke.  At  last 
she  understood.  She  said  haughtily:  "I  shall  pay  you  back 
every  dollar." 

"Ah,  you'll  borrow  from  Selden  or  Rosedale — and  take  your 
chances  of  fooling  them  as  you've  fooled  me!" 

He  stepped  back  and  opened  the  door.  "  You  have  nothing 
to  fear  from  me.  Vile  as  you  think  me,  and  as  I  may  be,  I  live 
up  to  a  standard  of  honor  that  is  far  above  yours.     Gk)!" 

Desperately  determined  to  repay  Trenor  the  money,  long 
since  spent  in  satisfying  her  creditors,  Lily  turned  to  her  aunt. 
But  Mrs.  Peniston,  who  had  been  informed  of  Lily's  bridge 
debts,  was  appalled,  and  she  refused  to  aid  her.  Then  Lily 
turned  to  Selden.  But  Selden  had  been  taken  into  confidence 
by  Trenor,  in  the  broker's  maudlin  desire  for  sympathy  in  the 
affair,  and,  sick  at  heart,  had  gone  on  a  trip  abroad.  She  de- 
termined to  write  for  a  loan  to  Rosedale,  who  had  made  her  an 
open  offer  of  his  purse,  either  with  or  without  his  hand,  but,  as 
she  sat  with  suspended  pen,  unable  to  put  the  humiliating  appeal 
on  paper,  a  letter  came  to  her  from  Mrs.  Dorset,  inviting  her  to 
go  with  her  and  her  husband  yachting  in  the  Mediterranean. 
She  eagerly  accepted  the  invitation,  and  the  party  left  New 
York  within  a  week. 

Mrs.  Dorset,  in  place  of  the  unimpressionable  Selden,  had 
taken  up  Ned  Silverton,  a  beautiful  young  "poet  of  passion," 
as  her  cicisbeo;  and,  when  the  yacht  reached  the  romantic  land 
of  Italy,  she  became  so  reckless  in  her  endearments  that  Lily 
was  hard  put  to  it  to  conceal  them  from  Mr.  Dorset,  who,  in- 
deed, with  cynical  indifference,  was  ready  to  wink  at  merely 
sentimental  infidelity  on  the  part  of  his  wife,  although  he  was 
not  prepared  to  tolerate  any  action  of  hers  that  invited  public 
scandal.  At  last  Mrs.  Dorset  crossed  the  line  into  this  for- 
bidden territory.    She  and  her  poet  went  ashore  for  an  after- 


232  THE   HOUSE   OF  MIRTH 

noon's  excursion  through  the  groves  of  the  Riviera,  and  failed 
to  return  until  next  morning,  leaving  Mr.  Dorset  and  Miss  Bart 
together  waiting  for  them.  A  prying  society  reporter  discovered 
the  situation  of  the  innocent  couple,  and  spread  the  news  about 
by  word  of  mouth  among  the  Dorsets'  acquaintances,  and  Mrs. 
Dorset,  with  defiant  impudence,  made  the  scandal  public  by 
declaring  before  a  dinner-party  on  shore  next  day,  that  *'Miss 
Bart  would  not  return  to  the  yacht." 

Lawrence  Selden  was  a  guest  at  the  dinner,  having  drifted  in 
his  restless,  circling  flight  about  Europe  toward  the  presence  of 
Lily  Bart.  At  the  public  humiliation  of  the  woman  in  whose 
inherent  purity  he  still  believed,  in  spite  of  all  the  apparently 
strong  evidence  against  her,  he  arose  and  escorted  her  from  the 
room. 

Lily  returned  at  once  to  New  York.  While  she  was  on  the 
ocean  her  aunt  died,  leaving  her  fortune  to  another  niece,  with 
the  exception  of  a  legacy  of  ten  thousand  dollars  to  Lily,  with 
instructions  that  she  was  to  save  the  family  honor  by  using 
it  to  pay  her  debts. 

The  inevitable  delay  in  settling  the  estate  was  intolerable  to 
Lily.  In  order  to  repay  Gus  Trenor  she  even  subjected  herself 
to  the  humiliation  of  the  malignant  heiress's  refusal  to  advance 
her  the  amount  of  the  legacy.  Then  she  thought  again  of  Rose- 
dale,  who  was  continuing  his  attentions,  although  he  had  not 
repeated  his  offer  of  marriage.  She  sought  him  out  and  hum- 
bly told  him  that  she  would  now  accept  his  proposal.  But  he 
plainly  informed  her  that  he  could  not  now  afford  to  marry  her, 
unless  she  made  her  peace  with  Mrs.  Dorset  and  was  reestab- 
lished in  the  social  world,  where  now,  after  his  long  struggle,  he 
had  gained  a  foothold. 

At  this  juncture  a  means  for  such  reSstablishment  presented 
itself.  The  scrubwoman  of  the  Benedict  met  Lily  in  the 
street,  and  showed  her  several  passionate  love-letters  to  Selden 
from  "Bertha,"  evidently  supposing  that  Lily,  whom  she  recog- 
nized as  the  visitor  to  his  apartments,  was  their  author.  These 
letters  she  had  pieced  together  from  fragments  found  in  Selden's 
waste-basket.  Lily  recognized  them  as  from  Mrs.  Dorset, 
and,  thinking  only  of  Selden,  she  bought  the  letters  at  a  price 
she  could  ill  afford.     It  was  not  until  she  reached  her  room 


EDITH  WHARTON  233 

that  the  temptation  assailed  her  to  use  them  in  forcing  Mrs. 
Dorset  to  grant  her  the  public  apology  that  would  wipe  out  her 
undeserved  disgrace  and,  by  establishing  her  in  her  old  position 
further  secure  wealth  and  power  for  her  as  the  wife  of  Rose- 
dale,  the  multimillionaire. 

Then  she  met  Dorset,  the  poltroon  who  had  failed  to  defend 
her  in  the  hour  of  her  crucifixion.  At  the  price  of  her  dismiss- 
ing Silverton  (who  speedily  went  to  the  bad,  to  the  financial 
ruin  and  anguish  of  soul  of  his  only  relative,  a  doting  maiden 
aunt),  he  had  made  peace  with  his  wife.  Now,  on  her  return 
to  New  York,  she  had  taken  up  her  old  course,  and  he  had  de- 
termined upon  a  divorce  to  end  his  agony.  He  appealed  to  Miss 
Bart  to  free  him  and  exonerate  himself  by  testifying  in  court  as 
to  the  true  situation  on  the  yacht.  But  the  letters  gave  her  op- 
portunity for  this  revenge  and  rehabilitation  without  publicity. 

What  would  Selden  do  in  her  situation?  In  a  moment  she 
made  her  decision.  ^'  Good-by — ^I'm  sorry;  but  you  must  do 
without  my  help." 

Fearing  that  she  would  not  abide  by  her  resolution,  she 
burned  the  letters.  In  order  to  live,  she  then  cut  off  all  hopes 
of  reentering  her  own  set  by  taking  a  place  as  '' social  secretary" 
with  a  dashing  rich  widow  of  a  bohemian  circle.  Selden  heard 
of  this,  and,  knowing  of  her  legacy,  but  not  that  it  was  fore- 
stalled, expostulated  with  her  for  taking  such  occupation.  She 
defended  herself  with  bitterness,  but  resigned  the  place.  Then 
she  secured  employment  as  a  workwoman  in  a  fashionable 
milliner-shop.  Here  she  very  quickly  discovered  her  inef- 
ficiency, and  saved  herself  from  the  humiliation  of  dismissal 
by  resignation.  Without  employment  (she  subsisted  upon  the 
sale  of  her  clothing),  her  mind  had  opportunity  to  prey  upon  it- 
self, and  she  went  into  a  physical  decline.  She  wandered  in  the 
parks  by  day,  and  lay  awake  at  night,  thinking,  thinking.  To 
relieve  her  insomnia  she  began  taking  chloral.  Rosedale  met 
her  on  the  street  one  day,  and,  alarmed  at  her  appearance,  in- 
directly gave  her  to  imderstand  his  purse  was  at  her  service. 
But  she  refused  the  offer  with  gratitude. 

In  her  mental  distress  a  great  longing  seized  her  to  see  Selden, 
and  she  visited  him  at  his  apartment.  As  he  looked  up  in  sur- 
prise, she  said  simply:  "I  have  come  to  tell  you  I  am  sorry  for 


234  THE  HOUSE   OF  MIRTH 

what  I  said  to  you  that  day  at  Mrs.  Hatch's.  You  were  right. 
I  have  left  the  place." 

"Lily!  Lily!"  he  cried  contritely,  in  alarm  at  her  appear- 
ance— for  poverty  was  evident  in  her  dress,  as  well  as  illness  in 
her  face — "  forgive  me ;  I  advised  you  for  what  I  thought  was  the 
best.  I  should  have  trusted  you  to  find  your  own  way  out. 
Don't  overwhelm  me  with  a  sense  of  my  officiousness ! "  And  he 
took  her  gently  by  the  arm  to  lead  her  to  a  chair;  but  she  refused 
to  sit. 

"I  must  go.  I  do  not  think  you  were  officious.  Believe 
me,  I  am  not  ungrateful.  It  has  always  been  you  who  have 
kept  me  from  mistakes — from  really  becoming  what  people 
have  thought  me.  Now  I  have  come  to  say  thank  you,  and 
good-by." 

"  But  this  real  Lily  Bart — the  one  I  know  you  to  be,  and  not 
the  one  people  have  thought  you — do  you  know,  she  has  been 
an  influence  in  my  life  that  I  cannot  spare.  Oh,  do  not  take  her 
from  me!" 

"Then  I  shall  leave  her  with  you.  Good-by,  Lawrence 
Selden;  good-by,  Lily  Bart!"  she  said,  and  was  gone. 

When  she  reached  her  little  hall  bedroom  she  found  a  letter 
under  the  door.  It  contained  the  long-delayed  check  for  the 
amount  of  her  inheritance.  She  sat  down  and  addressed  two 
envelopes — one  to  the  bank  where  she  still  retained  a  meager 
balance,  and  one  to  Charles  Augustus  Trenor,  150  Wall  Street. 
She  enclosed  the  check  for  ten  thousand  dollars  in  the  former, 
and,  writing  a  check  for  nine  thousand  dollars,  placed  it  in 
the  latter.  Taking  a  bottle  of  chloral  from  her  bureau  drawer, 
she  poured  out  a  dose,  drank  it,  and  afterward  took  a  deep 
draught  from  the  bottle.    Then  she  lay  down  upon  her  bed. 

Selden,  alarmed  at  Lily's  wild  and  portentous  words  of  fare- 
well, sent  his  cousin,  Gerty  Farrish,  to  see  her,  and  take  her  home 
to  Gerty's  apartment.  Miss  Farrish  came  too  late.  Leaving 
the  dying  girl  in  charge  of  a  doctor,  she  returned  to  Selden  and 
told  him  the  tragic  news. 

He  hurried  to  Lily's  room.  Before  he  dared  to  look  fully 
upon  her  dead  face,  his  eye  caught  sight  of  the  envelopes  upon 
the  dressing-table.  He  took  them  up,  and  with  a  pang  of  his 
old  suspicion,  poisoned  by  latent  jealousy,  he  saw  that  one  was 


EDITH  WHARTON  235 

addressed  to  Trenor.  The  flap  was  still  ungummed.  Temp- 
tation leaped  upon  him,  and  he  staggered  under  it;  then,  draw- 
ing himself  up,  laid  the  letter  down  unopened.  Then  he  saw 
the  check-book  on  the  table,  and,  taking  it,  he  read  from  the  last 
stub  the  truth  of  the  tragedy. 

Then  he  had  courage  to  turn  to  the  bed.  Kjieeling,  he  bent 
over  her;  and  in  the  silence  the  word  that  made  all  clear  passed 
between  them. 


OSCAR   FINGALL   O'FLAHERTIE 
WILLS   WILDE 

(Ireland,  1 856-1 900) 
THE  PICTURE   OF  DORIAN   GRAY  (1890) 

This  novel  appeared  first  in  Lippincott^s  Magazine  for  July,  1890.  In 
1884  Mr.  Wilde  was  frequently  in  Basil  Ward's  studio,  where  one  of  the  artist's 
sitters  was  a  young  man  of  such  eminent  beauty  that  he  was  nicknamed  "The 
Radiant  Youth."  When  the  painting  was  completed,  and  the  original  had  left 
the  studio,  Wilde  said:  "What  a  pity  that  such  a  glorious  creature  should  ever 
grow  old! "  "  Yes,"  answered  Mr.  Ward;  "how  delightful  it  would  be  if  he  could 
remain  exactly  as  he  is,  while  the  portrait  aged  and  withered  in  his  stead."  The 
novel  was  highly  praised  by  the  American  press  for  the  profound  moral  lesson  it 
conveyed,  and  savagely  attacked  by  the  British  reviewers  for  its  insidious  im- 
morality. In  reply  to  one  of  these  adverse  critics,  Wilde  wrote  a  defense  of 
the  work,  in  which  he  said:  "The  moral  is  this:  all  excess,  as  well  as  all  renuncia- 
tion, brings  its  own  punishment.  The  painter,  Basil  Hallward,  worshiping 
physical  beauty  far  too  much,  as  most  painters  do,  dies  by  the  hand  of  one  in 
whom  he  has  created  a  monstrous  and  absurd  vanity.  Dorian  Gray,  having 
led  a  life  of  mere  sensation  and  pleasure,  tries  to  kill  Conscience,  and  at  that 
moment  kills  himself." 

|0T  exhibit  it,  Basil?    Why,  this  would  be  crim- 
inal!   It  is  just  the  thing  for  the  Grosvenor." 
"No,  for  the  Rogues'  Gallery." 
"I  thought  Dorian  Gray  was  a  prince  of  per- 
fection in  your  eyes." 

"So  he  is,  but  it  is  his  own  character  that  an 
artist  exhibits  in  his  pictures;  I  have  put  too  much 
of  myself  in  this  one — ^an  aspect  of  my  nature  that 
appalls  me.  When  I  looked  upon  his  perfect  face, 
I  knew  that  my  free,  peaceful  life  was  ended,  and  that  Fate 
had  in  store  for  me  exquisite  joys  and  exquisite  sorrows." 
"Absurd!  there  is  your  art  to  attract  your  devotion." 
"He  is  all  my  art  to  me  now.  What  the  face  of  Antinous 
was  to  late  Greek  sculpture,  the  face  of  Dorian  Gray  has  become 
to  me.    His  personality  has  suggested  an  entirely  new  manner 

236 


OSCAR   WILDE  237 

in  art.     It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  bartered  my  own  soul  for  this 
divination  of  beauty." 

"  I  should  like  to  see — no,  the  portrait  is  sufficient  for  that — 
I  should  like  to  know  this  wonderful  boy.'* 

"For  my  sake,  for  his  sake,  do  not  attempt  it,  Harry.  He 
has  a  simple  and  a  beautiful  nature,  that  is  as  plastic  as  it  is 
pure.  Your  influence  over  him  would  be  absolute,  and  it  would 
be  evil." 

"What  nonsense  you  talk,"  said  Lord  Henry  Wotton. 

At  this  moment  Dorian  Gray  entered  the  studio.  When  he 
saw  Lord  Henry  a  faint  blush  colored  his  cheek.  "  I  beg  your 
pardon,  Basil;  I  didn't  know  you  had  anyone  with  you." 

Yes,  the  boy  is  wonderfully  handsome,  thought  Lord  Henry, 
noting  Dorian's  finely  curved  scarlet  lips,  his  frank  blue  eyes, 
his  crisp  gold  hair.  And  all  the  candor  of  youth  and  youth's 
passionate  purity  were  there,  as  well  as  youth's  beauty. 

"This  is  Lord  Henry  Wotton,  Dorian,  an  old  Oxford  friend 
of  mine,"  said  the  painter.  "He  is  just  going,  as  I  have  told 
him  I  must  finish  your  picture  to-day." 

"Why  mayn't  he  stay,  if  it  pleases  him?" 

Hallward  bit  his  lip.  "If  Dorian  wishes  it,  of  course  you 
must  stay." 

Lord  Henry  seated  himself,  and  Dorian  mounted  the  dais. 

"  Don't  move  about  too  much,"  said  the  painter  to  Dorian, 
"and  pay  no  attention  to  what  Lord  Henry  says.  He  has  a 
very  bad  influence  over  all  his  friends  but  me." 

"Have  you  really  as  bad  an  influence  as  Basil  says?"  Dorian 
inquired. 

"  There  is  no  such  thing  as  a  good  influence,  Mr.  Gray.  All 
influence  is  immoral.  The  aim  of  life  is  self-development.  But 
people  are  afraid  of  themselves  nowadays.  The  terror  of  society, 
which  is  the  basis  of  morals;  the  terror  of  God,  which  is  the  basis 
of  religion — these  are  the  two  things  that  govern  us.  And  yet  I 
believe  if  one  man  would  dare  to  live  his  own  life,  giving  form  to 
every  feeling,  expression  to  every  thought,  reality  to  every  dream, 
the  world  would  gain  such  a  fresh  impulse  of  joy  that  we  should 
forget  the  maladies  of  medievaHsm  and  return  to  the  Hellenic 
ideal.  The  only  way  to  get  rid  of  a  temptation  is  to  yield  to  it. 
You,  Mr.  Gray,  with  your  rose-white  youth,  which  you  should 


238  THE   PICTURE   OF  DORIAN   GRAY 

cherish  before  it  fades  into  the  repulsiveness  of  age  and  rots 
into  the  hideousness  of  death,  have  had  passions  that  have 
made  you  afraid — day-dreams  and  sleeping-dreams  that  stained 
your  cheek  with  shame — " 

"Stop!"  murmured  Dorian;  "you  bewilder  me.  There  is 
some  answer  to  you,  but  I  cannot  find  it." 

There  was  silence  in  the  studio.  Hallward  stopped  painting; 
looked  scrutinizingly  at  his  sitter,  and  then,  saying:  "It  is  fin- 
ished," traced  his  name  on  the  left-hand  corner  of  the  canvas. 

Dorian  looked  at  his  portrait,  and  the  sense  of  his  own 
beauty  came  to  him  like  a  revelation.  Conjoined  with  it  was 
the  warning  of  Lord  Henry  that  it  would  pass  into  decay  and 
dissolution.  A  sharp  pang  of  pain  struck  through  him  like  a 
knife,  followed  by  a  chilling  numbness  of  the  heart,  as  if  a  hand 
of  ice  had  gripped  it. 

"How  awful!"  he  groaned.  "I  shall  grow  old,  and  horrid, 
and  dreadful,  but  this  picture  will  remain  always  young.  If  it 
were  only  the  other  way!    For  this  I  would  sell  my  very  soul." 

The  next  day  Dorian  received  a  book  from  Lord  Henry.  It 
was  a  novel  without  a  plot  and  with  only  one  character,  a  young 
Parisian  who  spent  his  life  trying  to  realize  in  the  end  of  the 
nineteenth  century  all  the  passions  that  belonged  to  the  preced- 
ing ages,  and  to  sum  up  in  himself  the  various  moods  through 
which  the  world-spirit  had  passed;  loving  those  renunciations 
that  men  have  unwisely  called  virtue  as  much  as  those  natural 
rebellions  that  wise  men  call  sin.  The  literary  style  of  the  book 
was  consonant  with  the  strange  motive.  There  were  in  it  meta- 
phors as  monstrous  as  orchids,  and  as  evil  in  color.  The  cadences 
of  the  sentences  were  monotonous,  yet  subtly  musical.  They 
produced  in  the  mind  of  the  lad  a  malady  of  dreaming,  that 
made  him  unconscious  of  the  creeping  shadows  of  twilight. 
Lord  Henry  called  and  found  him  in  this  reverie. 

"  I  thought  you  would  like  the  book,"  he  said. 

"Like  it!"  replied  Dorian.  "I  do  not  like  it;  it  fascinates 
me.     There  is  a  great  difference." 

"Ah,  if  you  have  discovered  that,  you  have  discovered  a 
great  deal." 

The  first  teaching  of  the  book  to  Dorian  was  a  lesson  in  love. 
The  woman  of  the  present,  with  her  foibles  and  her  fashions, 


OSCAR  WILDE  239 

her  affectations  and  insincerities,  had  no  fascination  for  him. 
He  desired  the  pure  beauty  of  the  ages  past,  not  in  one  woman, 
but  in  many  women.  This  he  found  summed  up  in  an  actress, 
Sibyl  Vane.  She  was  a  young  girl  of  independent  fortune,  living 
with  her  mother.  She  had  joined  a  company  of  obscure  actors, 
most  of  whom,  like  herself,  played  without  pay  and  furnished 
their  own  costumes  for  the  sake  of  an  introduction  to  the  stage. 
They  were  giving  Shakespearian  plays  at  a  third-rate  theater. 
Dorian  Gray  strolled  in  one  evening.  The  play  was  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  and  Sibyl  Vane  was  the  heroine.  Her  girlish  beauty 
and  the  sweet  simplicity  of  her  acting  filled  Dorian  with  a  sense 
of  charm  that  he  never  had  known  before.  The  manager,  a 
Jew,  came  to  him  at  the  close  of  the  performance,  and  offered  to 
introduce  him  to  Juliet;  but  Dorian  refused  the  invitation, 
saying:  "Juliet  has  been  dead  for  centuries,  and  her  body  is 
lying  in  a  marble  tomb  in  Verona." 

Night  after  night  Dorian  frequented  the  theater.  To  Sir 
Henry  Wotton,  who  had  become  his  close  friend,  he  described 
his  impressions  of  Sibyl  Vane:  "One  evening  she  is  Miranda, 
and  the  next  she  is  Imogen.  I  have  seen  her  die  in  the  gloom 
of  an  Italian  tomb,  sucking  the  poison  from  her  lover's  lips.  I 
have  watched  her  wandering  through  the  forest  of  Arden,  dis- 
guised as  a  pretty  boy  in  hose  and  doublet  and  dainty  cap.  She 
has  been  mad,  and  has  come  into  the  presence  of  a  guilty  king, 
and  given  him  rue  to  wear,  and  bitter  herbs  to  taste  of.  She 
has  been  innocent,  and  the  black  hands  of  jealousy  have  crushed 
her  reed-like  throat.  I  have  seen  her  in  every  age  and  in  every 
costume,  and  to  the  end  of  my  life,  when  I  shall  be  old  and 
hideous,  she  will  remain  to  me  the  body  and  soul  of  dear,  immor- 
tal youth." 

"Have  you  talked  with  her?" 

"Yes,  the  Jew  was  persistent,  and  at  the  third  performance 
I  consented  to  go  behind  the  scenes.  It  is  curious,  my  not  want- 
ing to  know  her,  isn't  it?" 

"No;  I  don't  think  so.  You  should  not  have  gone.  I  lost 
my  early  delight  in  the  drama  by  meeting  actresses  in  real  life. 
But  what  about  the  girl?" 

"  Oh,  she  was  shy  and  gentle,  and  so  sweetly  unconscious  of 
her  power.    The  old  Jew  insisted  on  calling  me  "My  lord," 


240  THE   PICTURE   OF  DORIAN   GRAY 

and  I  had  to  assure  Sibyl  I  was  nothing  of  the  kind.  She  said 
simply,  "You  look  more  like  a  prince." 

"  On  my  word,  Dorian,  your  unsophisticated  actress  knows 
how  to  pay  compliments." 

"  You  don't  understand  her,  Harry.  She  regarded  me  merely 
as  a  person  in  a  play.  She  knows  nothing  of  life.  Oh,  it  was  a 
happy  day  when  I  met  her!  I  love  her,  love  her,  and  always 
shall;  and  last  night  she  told  me  that  she  loved  me  in  the  same 
immortal  way!  I  want  you  to  see  her.  I  intend  to  break  her 
contract  with  the  Jew,  and  take  her  to  a  West  End  theater,  and 
bring  her  out  properly." 

That  evening  Sir  Henry  went  with  Dorian  to  see  Sibyl  play 
Juliet.  Through  the  rout  of  ungainly,  shabbily  dressed  actors 
she  moved  like  a  creature  from  a  finer  world.  But  when  she 
spoke  it  was  with  a  strange  listlessness.  The  voice  was  ex- 
quisite, but  its  tone  was  absolutely  false. 

Dorian  grew  pale  as  he  watched  her.  Sir  Henry  did  not  dare 
to  say  anything  to  him.  She  seemed  utterly  incompetent.  But 
he  waited  hopefully  for  the  balcony  scene.  Here  her  staginess 
was  so  execrable  that  Sir  Henry  could  not  forbear  an  excla- 
mation of  disappointment.  Dorian  groaned  in  anguish.  Even 
the  audience  of  commonplace  people  showed  their  restlessness 
by  talking  and  even  whistling.  Some  tittered,  and  others 
began  to  leave  the  theater.  The  Jew  manager,  who  stood 
back  of  the  dress-circle,  was  glowering  and  swearing  with  rage. 
Romeo  plainly  showed  his  disgust.  The  only  person  unmoved 
was  the  girl  herself. 

At  the  close  of  the  second  act  there  was  a  storm  of  hisses, 
and  Lord  Henry  got  up  and  put  on  his  coat. 

"She  is  quite  beautiful,  Dorian,"  he  said,  "but  she  can't  act. 
Let  us  go." 

" I  am  going  to  see  the  play  through,"  answered  the  lad.  "I 
am  sorry  I  made  you  waste  an  evening,  Harry." 

"  Don't  take  it  so  hard,  Dorian,"  said  Lord  Henry,  departing. 
"I  don't  suppose  you  will  want  your  wife  to  remain  upon  the 
stage.  She  is  very  lovely,  and  if  she  knows  as  little  about  life 
as  she  knows  about  acting,  she  will  be  a  delightful  experience." 

As  soon  as  the  play  was  over,  Dorian  rushed  behind  the 
scenes.    He  found  Sibyl  standing  alone.    Her  eyes  were  radi- 


OSCAR   WILDE  241 

ant,  and  her  parted  lips  were  smiling  over  some  secret  of  their 
own.  She  looked  at  Gray,  and  an  expression  of  infinite  joy 
came  over  her.     ''How  badly  I  acted  to-night,  Dorian!" 

"Horribly.     What  is  the  matter?" 

''Don't  you  understand?  I  shall  always  be  bad.  I  never 
shall  act  again." 

"No,  I  don't  understand.  You  made  yourself  and  me 
ridiculous.     My  friend  was  bored.     I  was  bored." 

"Dorian,  before  I  knew  you,  acting  was  the  one  reality  of 
my  life.  I  knew  nothing  but  shadows,  and  thought  them  sub- 
stantial things.  Then  you  came — oh,  my  beautiful  love! — and 
taught  me  what  reality  really  is.  To-night,  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life,  I  saw  through  the  sham,  the  silliness,  of  the  empty 
pageant  in  which  I  had  been  living.  Suddenly  it  dawned  on  my 
soul  what  it  all  meant:  I  heard  the  hissing,  and  smiled.  What 
should  they  know  of  love?  Oh,  Dorian,  even  if  I  were  able 
to  play  at  being  in  love,  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  do  it — that 
would  be  profanation." 

"You  have  killed  my  love,"  he  muttered. 

She  laughed,  and  came  to  him.  She  touched  his  hair  caress- 
ingly, and,  taking  his  hands,  kissed  them. 

He  tore  them  away.  "  I  loved  you  because  you  had  genius 
and  intellect.  You  made  real  to  me  the  dreams  of  great  poets. 
You  have  thrown  it  all  away.  You  are  shallow  and  stupid. 
My  God!  how  mad  I  was  to  love  you!  I  never  will  see  you 
again.  You  have  spoiled  the  romance  of  my  life.  I  would 
have  made  you  famous,  magnificent.  What  are  you  without 
your  art?    A  third-rate  actress  with  a  pretty  face!" 

The  girl  grew  white.  "You  are  acting,  Dorian,"  she  said, 
and  clung  about  his  neck,  kissing  him. 

He  flung  her  away,  and  she  dropped  upon  the  floor  at  his 
feet.  "  Forgive  me,"  she  implored.  "  I  will  work  so  hard,  and 
try  to  improve.     Oh,  don't  leave  me,  don't  leave  me!" 

"I  am  going,"  he  said  in  a  clear,  calm  voice.  "I  don't  wish 
to  be  unkind,  but  I  can't  see  you  again." 

Entering  his  apartments,  he  went  at  once  to  his  portrait. 

But  it  smiled  ironically  at  him.     About  the  mouth  curved  a  line 

of  cruelty  he  never  before  had  observed.     He  picked  up  an  ivory 

hand-mirror,  framed  with  lascivious  figures,  which  Lord  Henry 

A.D.,  VOL.  xvn. — 16 


242  THE   PICTURE   OF   DORIAN   GRAY 

had  given  him.  No  line  like  that  in  the  portrait  warped  his  red 
lips.     What  did  it  mean? 

Suddenly  he  remembered  the  wish  he  had  made  in  Hall- 
ward's  studio,  that  he  might  remain  fresh  and  young,  and  the 
portrait  take  on  the  hard  lines  of  age  and  experience.  Calling 
his  valet,  he  ordered  him  to  cover  the  picture  from  sight. 

In  the  morning  he  determined  to  go  to  Sybil  and  ask  for- 
giveness. Among  other  good  resolutions,  he  determined  to 
break  with  Lord  Henry.     There  came  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"It  is  Harry,  Harry  Wotton,"  said  the  visitor.  Dorian  did 
not  reply.  "Let  me  in;  I  wish  to  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am — 
about  Sibyl  Vane." 

Dorian  let  him  in. 

"It  is  dreadful,"  said  Lord  Henry.  "Tell  me,  did  you  see 
her  after  the  play?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  make  a  scene?" 

"I  was  perfectly  brutal.  But  it's  all  right.  I'm  not  sorry. 
It  has  taught  me  to  know  myself  better." 

"Ah,  I  am  so  relieved!    That  is  the  way  to  take  it." 

"Yes,  I  know  what  conscience  is.  It  is  not  what  you  told 
me.     It  is  our  divinest  possession." 

"A  charming  esthetic  basis  for  ethics.  How  are  you  going 
to  begin?" 

"  By  marrying  Sibyl  Vane." 

"Marrying — Sibyl — ^Vanel"  cried  Lord  Henry.  "Did  you 
not  get  my  telegram?    Have  you  not  seen  the  morning  papers?" 

"No,"  said  Dorian  in  alarm. 

"  Dorian,  Sibyl  Vane  is  dead — and  by  her  own  hand." 

The  grief  of  Dorian  Gray,  while  demonstrative,  had  a  vein 
of  insincerity,  of  selfishness  in  it;  this  Sir  Henry  detected,  and 
he  made  artful  use  of  it  in  comforting  his  friend.  He  said  to 
Dorian,  very  gently : 

"You  once  remarked  that  Sibyl  Vane  was  immortal  in  her 
artistic  life — that  if  she  died  as  Desdemona  one  night,  she  came 
to  life  as  Imogen  the  next.  So  to  you  she  will  always  be  a 
dream.  She  was  a  creature  of  fantasy.  The  moment  she 
touched  actual  life,  she  marred  it,  and  it  marred  her.  Mourn 
for  Ophelia  if  you  like;  cry  out  against  Heaven  because  the 


OSCAR  WILDE  243 

daughter  of  Brabantio  died,  but  waste  no  tears  over  Sibyl  Vane. 
She  was  less  real  than  they." 

That  evening,  while  Sibyl's  mother  sat  alone  with  the  dead 
body  of  the  girl,  Dorian  sat  with  Sir  Henry  in  a  box  at  the  opera, 
attracting  more  notice  than  the  tenor  on  the  stage. 

Rumors  began  to  spread  about  the  evil  influence  that  Sir 
Henry  was  exerting  over  Dorian  Gray.  Indulgence  in  strange 
and  even  monstrous  vices  was  ascribed  to  the  two.  Although 
Dorian  had  shunned  Basil  Hallward  of  late,  the  painter  felt  it 
his  duty  to  keep  in  touch  with  the  young  man.  Accordingly  he 
visited  Dorian  at  his  apartments. 

"Why  have  you  covered  up  my  masterpiece?"  he  asked. 

"The  light  was  too  strong,"  said  Dorian,  somewhat  confused. 

"Impossible;  I  selected  the  position  myself,"  said  the  painter, 
walking  toward  the  picture. 

Dorian  uttered  a  cry  of  terror.  "If  you  touch  that  screen, 
all  is  over  between  us!" 

A  light  seemed  to  dawn  on  Hallward's  face.  "Then  you 
have  observed  it,  too?"  he  inquired. 

"Observed  what?" 

"That  I  have  endowed  the  painting  with  a  sort  of  personality, 
which  reveals  the  secrets  of  character." 

"My  God,  yes!    What  black  art  have  you  employed?" 

"An  art  that  I  learned  wholly  from  your  beautiful  self, 
Dorian.  The  artistic  self  is  an  entity  apart  from  the  natural, 
moral,  real  self,  and  there  should  be  no  shame  if  anyone  dis- 
covers in  it  evil  characteristics.  So  I  have  come  to  beg  you  to 
allow  me  to  exhibit  the  portrait." 

"Exhibit  it!"  screamed  Dorian.  "Curse  you  and  your  im- 
pudence !    I  never  wish  to  see  you  again." 

Thinking  that  Dorian  had  found  in  the  picture  evil  traits 
of  the  painter,  Hallward  turned  humbly  away.  As  soon  as  he 
was  gone,  Dorian  sent  the  picture  to  an  attic  room,  locked  the 
door,  and  hid  the  key  in  his  breast. 

Dorian  was  less  and  less  often  invited  to  country  houses. 
He  was  blackballed  at  a  West  End  club.  Certain  gentlemen 
always  walked  out  of  a  public  dining-room  when  he  entered  it. 
Women  who  had  wildly  adored  him,  and  for  his  sake  had  braved 
social  censure,  grew  pallid  with  shame  when  Dorian  Gray  en- 


244  THE   PICTURE   OF   DORIAN   GRAY 

tered  the  room.  The  stories  about  his  vicious  habits  increased. 
It  was  said  that  he  had  been  seen  with  foreign  sailors  in  a  low 
den  in  Whitechapel;  that  he  consorted  with  thieves  and  coiners 
— indeed,  that  he  was  engaged  in  counterfeiting  money  in  a 
room  in  the  top  of  his  own  house,  the  door  of  which  was  always 
kept  bolted  when  he  was  within,  and  found  locked  in  his 
absence. 

Again  Basil  Hallward  sought  Dorian  Gray,  to  turn  him  if 
possible  from  his  evil  course. 

"Dorian,"  he  said,  "you  don't  know  what  is  said  about  you. 
I  won't  tell  you  that  I  don't  wish  to  preach  about  you.  I  re- 
member Harry  saying  once  that  every  man  who  turns  himself 
into  an  amateur  curate  for  the  moment  always  says  this,  and. 
then  proceeds  to  break  his  word.  I  do  v/ish  to  preach  to  you. 
You  have  a  wonderful  influence.  Let  it  be  for  good  and  not  for 
evil.  A  friend  had  shown  me  a  letter  that  his  wife  wrote  to  him 
when  she  was  dying  at  Mentone.  Your  name  was  implicated  in 
the  most  terrible  confession  I  ever  read.  I  told  him  that  it  was 
absurd;  that  you  were  incapable  of  anything  of  the  kind,  for  I 
knew  you  thoroughly.  This  was  a  lie ;  I  do  not  know  you.  To 
do  so,  I  should  have  to  see  your  soul.  And  only  God  can  do 
that." 

A  bitter  laugh  broke  from  the  lips  of  the  younger  man.  "  You 
shall  see  it  yourself  to-night!"  he  said.  "You  have  chattered 
enough  about  corruption.  Now  you  shall  look  on  it  face  to  face. 
It  is  your  own  handiwork." 

Dorian  Gray  took  Basil  Hallward  to  the  room  in  the  attic, 
unlocked  the  door,  and  bade  him  enter.  As  Dorian  was  light- 
ing a  half-burned  candle  that  stood  on  the  mantelpiece,  Basil 
saw  that  the  whole  place  was  covered  with  dust.  A  mouse  ran 
scuffling  behind  the  wainscoting.  There  was  a  damp  odor  of 
mildew. 

A  picture  stood  on  an  easel  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  bound 
about  with  a  curtain.  Dorian  produced  a  long,  sharp  knife, 
and  cut  the  heavy  cord.     He  took  hold  of  the  covering. 

"  So  you  think  that  it  is  only  God  who  sees  the  soul,  Basil  ? 
Well,  you  shall  see  mine,"  he  sneered,  and  drew  the  curtain. 

An  exclamation  of  horror  broke  from  Hallward,  as  a  hideous 
visage  leered  at  him  from  the  canvas.     Good  heavens!    It  was 


OSCAR   WILDE  245 

Dorian  Gray's  own  face !  The  horror,  whatever  it  was,  had  not 
yet  entirely  marred  that  marvelous  beauty.  There  was  still 
some  gold  in  the  thinning,  graying  hair,  and  some  scarlet  on  the 
sensual  lips.  The  sodden  eyes  had  a  touch  of  amethyst;  the 
noble  curves  still  remained  in  the  chiseled  nostrils  and  the  plastic 
throat.  Yes,  it  was  Dorian  himself.  But  who  had  done  it? 
Hallward  seized  the  candle  and  looked  for  the  artist's  signature. 
In  the  left-hand  corner  was  his  own  name,  traced  in  long  letters 
of  bright  vermilion. 

*' Well,  it  is  your  work,"  said  Dorian,  at  last.  "When  I  was 
an  innocent  boy  you  met  me,  devoted  yourself  to  me,  flattered 
me,  taught  me  to  prize  my  beauty.  You  remember  that  mad 
wish  I  made?    It  has  come  true." 

"I  tell  you  the  thing  is  impossible.  The  mildew  has  got  into 
the  canvas."  Hallward  examined  the  picture  again.  The  sur- 
face was  as  he  had  left  it.  It  was  from  within,  apparently,  that 
the  foulness  and  horror  had  come.  Through  some  strange 
quickening  of  inner  life  the  leprosies  of  sin  were  slowly  eating  the 
thing  away.  The  rotting  of  a  corpse  in  a  watery  grave  was  not 
so  fearful. 

As  the  artist  stood  spellbound  by  the  horror  of  it,  Dorian 
Gray  also  looked  at  the  picture.  Suddenly  an  uncontrollable 
hatred  for  Basil  Hallward  seized  him.  His  eyes  fell  upon  the 
knife  with  which  he  had  cut  the  cord.  He  took  it,  rushed  upon 
the  artist,  and  stabbed  him  in  the  neck  and  back  again  and 
again. 

Dorian  Gray  passed  out,  locked  the  door,  and  went  down 
the  stairs.  He  hid  Hallward's  coat  and  hat  in  a  secret  press  in 
the  wainscoting.  Then  he  sat  down  and  considered  how  he 
should  remove  the  body.  No,  removal  would  not  do.  Not  so 
much  through  fear  of  detection  as  through  hatred  of  the  painter, 
which  was  growing  every  moment,  he  determined  that  the  corpse 
should  be  utterly  destroyed,  annihilated. 

He  thought  of  a  man,  a  brilliant  young  chemist,  with  whom 
he  had  been  on  terms  of  closest  friendship,  which  had  suddenly 
come  to  an  end.  When  they  met  in  society  now,  it  was  only 
Dorian  Gray  who  smiled ;  Alan  Campbell  never  did. 

Gray  sent  for  Campbell,  and  calmly  told  him  that  he  had 
murdered  Basil  Hallward. 


246  THE   PICTURE   OF  DORIAN   GRAY 

*'You,  Alan,  must  change  him,  and  everything  that  belongs 
to  him,  into  a  handful  of  ashes  that  I  may  scatter  in  the  air." 

"You  are  insane,  Dorian!"  cried  Campbell,  "and  I  should 
be  insane  to  do  this  fearful  thing  you  ask." 

"You  refuse?" 

"Absolutely." 

A  look  of  pity  came  into  Dorian's  eyes  of  tender  blue.  He 
wrote  a  line  on  a  slip  of  paper,  and  handed  this  to  Campbell. 

As  the  chemist  read  it,  his  face  became  ghastly  pale,  and  he 
fell  back  in  his  chair. 

"I  will  do  it!"  he  gasped.    "Is  there  fire  in  the  room?" 

"Yes,  a  gas-fire  with  asbestos." 

Campbell  went  out,  and  in  a  half -hour  returned  with  several 
bundles.  Gray  gave  him  the  key,  and  Campbell  went  up-stairs 
with  his  materials. 

In  four  hours  he  came  down  again,  pale  but  absolutely  calm. 
"It  is  done.     Good -by  forever,  Dorian  Gray." 

Gray  went  up-stairs.  There  was  a  horrible  smell  of  chemi- 
cals in  the  room.  But  the  thing  that  had  lain  at  the  foot  of  the 
easel  was  gone. 

Returning  to  his  library,  Dorian  Gray  observed  the  book 
that  Sir  Henry  Wotton  had  given  him.  He  took  it  next  day  to 
Sir  Henry.  "Harry,"  he  said,  "take  back  your  poisonous  gift. 
Never  give  it  to  another  young  man  to  be  infected.  Keep  it 
yourself — ^you  are  Mithridates." 

"Whence  this  sudden  return  to  virtue,  Dorian?" 

"  Vice  begins  to  bore  me.  I  will  be  good  for  a  change.  I  am 
going  to  the  country.    It  is  very  stupid  in  town." 

"What,  with  everybody  talking  of  my  divorce  case?  Be- 
sides, the  morning  papers  are  full  of  the  suicide  of  Alan  Camp- 
bell, and  the  mysterious  disappearance  of  Basil  Hallward.  I 
rather  imagine  it  is  that  sweet  country  maiden,  Hetty  Merton, 
who  is  luring  you  away." 

"  No,  Harry,  exactly  the  opposite.  I  passed  her  this  morn- 
ing in  the  city.  She  was  gazing  into  a  florist's  window  and  did 
not  see  me.  I  have  determined  never  to  see  her  again — ^to  leave 
her  as  flower-like  as  when  I  found  her  amid  the  apple-blossoms 
last  May." 

"  Ah,  Dorian,  what  a  being  you  are !    You  have  robbed  in- 


OSCAR  WILDE  247 

dulgence  of  its  natural  penalties — for  your  face  is  as  pure  as  a 
child's — and  now  you  intend  to  make  the  rod  of  penance  burst 
into  blossoms  of  scented  delights." 

Dorian  returned  to  his  house  in  a  happy,  almost  beatific 
mood  over  plans  for  the  future.  He  could  not  be  blamed  for  the 
past.  It  had  been  very  wrong  in  Sibyl  Vane  to  kill  herself  in 
such  haste,  when  the  morrow  would  have  made  things  all  right 
again.  Basil  Hallward  deserved  his  death;  he  had  painted  the 
accursed  portrait.  Alan  CampbelPs  suicide  was  his  own  act. 
In  any  case,  Dorian's  renunciation  of  Hetty  Merton,  a  girl  who 
had  evidently,  through  love,  followed  him  to  the  city,  was  a  good 
deed  to  set  off  against  these  other  acts. 

He  went  to  the  attic  room,  and  saw  that  the  portrait  had  a 
new  expression,  a  look  of  cunning  in  the  eye,  and  in  the  mouth 
the  curved  wrinkle  of  the  hypocrite.  And  what  was  that  red 
stain  on  the  hand?  Blood!  As  he  looked  at  it,  it  seemed  to 
grow  larger,  to  spread  over  the  hand;  there  was  another  on  the 
hand  that  had  not  held  the  knife.  Yes,  the  stains  were  dripping, 
dripping,  even  to  the  feet! 

Confess?  Did  it  mean  that  he  was  to  give  himself  up,  and 
be  put  to  death?  No!  He  would  destroy  the  accursed  thing. 
He  looked  around,  and  saw  the  knife  that  had  stabbed  Basil 
Hallward.    He  seized  it,  and  slashed  the  picture  into  ribbons. 

A  cry  was  heard,  and  a  crash.  When  the  servants  forced 
an  entrance  into  the  room  they  found  upon  an  easel  a  splendid 
portrait  of  their  master  as  they  had  last  seen  him,  in  all  the  won- 
der of  his  exquisite  youth  and  beauty.  Lying  on  the  floor  was 
a  dead  man,  in  evening  dress,  with  a  knife  in  his  heart.  He  was 
withered,  wrinkled,  and  loathsome  of  visage.  It  was  not  until 
they  examined  his  finger-rings  that  they  recognized  who  it  was. 


MARY   ELEANOR   WILKINS 

(MRS.    CHARLES    M.    FREEMAN) 

(United  States,  1862) 

JANE   FIELD    (1892) 

This  was  the  author's  first  novel.  She  had  hitherto  been  known  only  as  a 
writer  of  short  stories,  all  depicting  New  England  life  and  characters.  Of  this, 
her  first  venture  in  larger  work,  she  says:  "As  it  was  my  first  novel,  I  kept  it  as 
short  and  as  simple  in  plot  as  possible.  It  is  really  more  like  a  long  short-story 
than  a  novel."  The  characters  are  purely  imaginary.  Of  the  central  figure  in 
the  book  she  says:  "Of  course  Jane  Field  is  a  typical  New  England  woman, 
with  a  typical  New  England  conscience,  who  showed  as  stern  a  persistency  in 
doing  wrong  as,  later,  she  showed  in  doing  right,  and  in  righting  the  wrong." 
We  present  here  Mrs.  Wilkins-Freeman's  own  shortened  version  of  her  story. 


MANDA  PRATT  sat  in  the  parlor  of  her  half  of 
her  cottage -house  in  Green  River,  the  home  of 
her  parents  and  grandparents  before  her.  The 
other  half  she  rented  to  Mrs.  Jane  Field  and  her 
daughter  Lois,  who  taught  the  village  school. 

Amanda  had  a  caller,  Mrs.  Adoniram  Bab- 
cock.  They  spoke  of  a  rumor  in  the  village  that 
the  health  of  Lois  Field  was  much  impaired, 
though  neither  she  nor  her  mother  would  admit 
it.  Her  visit  ended,  Mrs.  Babcock  crossed  the  hall  to  call  on 
Mrs.  Field,  and  there  she  touched  upon  the  same  subject,  al- 
luding tactlessly  to  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Field's  sister,  Mrs.  Esther 
Maxwell,  had  died  of  consumption. 

"I  dunno  what  folks  mean,  talkin'  so,"  said  Mrs.  Field. 
"Lois  ain't  been  lookin'  very  well,  as  I  know  of,  lately;  but  it's 
the  spring  of  the  year,  an'  she's  always  apt  to  feel  it." 

They  also  spoke  of  a  long-standing  coolness  between  Esther 
Maxwell's  husband,  Edward,  dead  some  years,  and  his  father, 
Thomas  Maxwell,  a  miserly  old  man  still  living,  caused  by  the 

248 


II 


MARY  ELEANOR  WILKINS  249 

son's  once  making  an  unwise  investment  against  his  father's 
advice. 

On  her  way  home  Mrs.  Babcock  met  Lois  returning  from 
school,  several  pupils  with  her.  She  inquired  after  Lois's 
health,  and  said  that  she  ought  to  take  a  little  vacation,  which 
the  girl  resented,  as  later  she  resented  her  mother's  attempts 
to  wait  on  her  and  fuss  over  her.  After  supper  Mrs.  Field  went 
to  prayer-meeting.  Ever  since  her  daughter  had  been  ill  she 
had  had  a  terrified  impulse  in  her  meeting-going.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  if  she  stayed  away  Lois  might  be  worse.  Unconsciously 
her  church-attendance  became  a  species  of  spell,  or  propitiation 
to  a  terrifying  deity,  and  the  wild  instinct  of  the  African  awoke 
in  the  New  England  woman. 

The  service  over,  she  stopped  at  the  village  store,  which  was 
also  the  post-office.  There  the  postmaster  handed  her  a  letter 
addressed  to  Mrs.  Esther  Maxwell,  which  she  found  to  be  from 
a  lawyer,  Daniel  Tuxbury,  of  the  town  of  Elliot,  saying  that  old 
Thomas  Maxwell  was  dead,  and  by  his  will  the  property  was  to 
go  to  his  son's  wife,  Esther  Maxwell,  and  in  the  event  of  her 
death  to  his  brother's  daughter.  Flora  Maxwell. 

After  reading  the  letter  Mrs.  Field  walked  home  with  a 
neighbor,  Mrs.  Green,  who  spoke  warningly  of  Lois's  condition. 
It  transpired  from  their  talk  that  the  mother  reaHzed  her  daugh- 
ter's ill-health,  but  was  powerless  to  give  her  the  rest  she  needed, 
as  they  were  dependent  on  the  girl's  salary  for  support;  also, 
that  she  had  at  one  time  lent  to  her  brother-in-law,  Edward 
Maxwell,  fifteen  hundred  dollars,  and  he  never  had  been  able  to 
repay  it.  After  his  death  she  had  tried  unsuccessfully  to  get  it 
from  his  father,  who  was  well-to-do.  When  Mrs.  Field's  sister 
Esther  had  begun  to  fail,  they  had  once  more  applied  to  him  for 
help,  and  he  had  refused,  so  they  never  troubled  him  again,  and 
he  was  not  notified  of  Esther  Maxwell's  death. 

Jane  Field  did  not  follow  her  first  impulse  to  tell  Lois  of  the 
letter.  After  Lois  had  gone  to  school  the  next  morning,  as  Mrs. 
Field  was  dusting  a  shell  box  full  of  photographs,  she  suddenly 
stopped  and  took  out  the  pictures,  looking  them  over  carefully. 
Replacing  all  but  one,  she  went  across  to  Amanda's  parlor  with 
that  in  her  hand.  Amanda,  being  asked  whose  likeness  it  was, 
declared  it  to  be  Mrs.  Field,  but  the  latter  told  her  it  was  a  pic- 


250  JANE  FIELD 

ture  of  Esther  Maxwell,  taken  ten  years  previously,  and  that 
they  had  always  been  mistaken  for  each  other  when  they  were 
girls. 

That  noon,  which  was  Friday,  Lois  did  not  come  home  to 
dinner.  While  her  mother  stood  at  the  gate  watching  for  her,  a 
friend  of  hers,  Ida  Starr,  passing,  expressed  the  hope  that  Lois 
was  pretty  well. 

"No,"  Mrs.  Field  cried  out.  "She  ain't  well;  she's  sick. 
She  wa'n't  fit  to  go  to  school.  She  couldn't  hardly  crawl  out  of 
the  yard.  She  ain't  got  home,  and  I'm  terrible  worried.  I 
dunno  but  she's  fell  down." 

Ida  offered  to  go  past  her  own  home  to  the  school,  and  look 
for  Lois,  while  Mrs.  Field  returned  to  the  house.  As  she  was 
telling  Amanda  Pratt  of  her  anxiety  they  heard  a  buggy  drive 
up,  and  Ida  Starr's  father,  one  of  the  school  committee,  lifted 
Lois  out.  She  had  lain  down  by  the  road  to  rest,  where  he  had 
found  her.  Mrs.  Field,  after  yielding  to  that  abandon  of  grief 
which  is  the  purest  selfishness,  decided  what  she  would  do.  On 
Sunday  night  she  told  Amanda  Pratt  she  was  going  to  Elliot, 
and  asked  her  to  board  Lois  for  a  week  or  two.  Amanda  con- 
sented, and  Mrs.  Field  set  out  the  next  morning,  not  having  told 
Lois  until  then  that  she  was  going. 

Jane  Field  arrived  at  Elliot  in  the  late  afternoon  and  in- 
quired the  way  to  Lawyer  Tuxbury's  office.  He  proved  to  be 
a  small,  sharp-eyed  man,  whose  youthful  agility  had  crystallized 
into  a  nervous  pomposity.  He  was  white-haired  and  somewhat 
deaf.  As  he  advanced  to  meet  her,  suddenly  he  stopped  short; 
he  had  passed  a  broad  slant  of  dusty  sunlight  that  had  lain  be- 
tween him  and  his  visitor,  and  he  could  see  her  face  plainly. 
His  own  elongated  for  a  second,  his  under  jaw  lopped,  and  his 
brows  contracted. 

"Why,  Mrs.  Maxwell!"  said  he;  "how  do  you  do?" 

"I'm  pretty  well,  thank  you,"  replied  Mrs.  Field.  She  tried 
to  bow,  but  her  back  would  not  bend. 

"I'm  delighted  to  see  you,"  said  the  lawyer.  "I  recognize 
you  perfectly  now.  I  should  have  before,  if  the  sun  had  not 
been  in  my  eyes.    I  never  forget  a  face." 

In  one  of  the  pauses  of  their  talk,  Lawyer  Tuxbury  suddenly 
excused  himself  and  stepped  out  intp  the  yard,  which  held  both 


MARY  ELEANOR  WILKINS  251 

his  house  and  his  office.  When  he  returned  he  had  with  him  a 
small,  straight -backed  woman  full  of  nervous  vibrations,  who 
recognized  Mrs.  Field  after  some  hesitation. 

"It's  Mis'  Maxwell,  ain't  it — ^Edward's  wife?  How  do  you 
do,  Esther?  I  hadn't  seen  you  for  so  long  I  wasn't  quite  sure, 
but  I  see  who  you  are  now." 

They  exchanged  stiff  greetings,  and  the  old  lady  continued: 
"You  ain't  changed  much,  come  to  look  at  you;  not  so  much  as 
I  have,  I  s'pose.     I  don't  expect  you'd  know  me,  would  you?" 

"  I — don't  know  as  I  would."  Mrs.  Field  recoiled  from  a  lie, 
even  in  the  midst  of  falsehood. 

When  the  old  lady  had  gone.  Lawyer  Tuxbury  turned  to 
Mrs.  Field.  "Mrs.  Henry  Maxwell  was  not  any  too  pleased 
to  see  you  sitting  here,"  he  whispered,  with  a  confidential  smile. 

Mrs.  Field  recognized  the  name  as  that  of  the  mother  of  the 
young  woman  who  was  the  real  legatee  to  Thomas  Maxwell's 
property.  Refusing  his  offer  of  hospitality,  as  she  had  refused 
that  of  Mrs.  Maxwell,  she  insisted  on  going  at  once  to  the  old 
Maxwell  house.  The  lawyer  accompanied  her  there,  let  her  in, 
and  lighted  a  lamp  for  her.  As  soon  as  he  had  left,  Jane  Field 
dropped  into  a  chair  in  the  sitting-room  and  sat  there  all  night, 
afraid  to  move. 

Li  the  morning  she  returned  to  the  lawyer's  and  for  two 
hours  listened  to  a  minute  description  of  the  Maxwell  property. 
When  this  was  completed  Mr.  Tuxbury  leaned  back,  then  sud- 
denly straightened  up  and  said:  "Let  me  see,  Mrs.  Maxwell, 
you  had  a  sister,  did  you  not?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Is  she  living?" 

"  No,  sir."  Mrs.  Field  said  this  with  a  gasping  readiness  to 
speak  one  truth. 

"  Let  me  see,  what  was  her  name  ?"  asked  the  lawyer.  "  No, 
wait  a  moment;  I'll  tell  you;  I've  heard  it."  He  held  up  a  hand 
as  if  warding  off  an  answer,  and  his  face  became  furrowed  with 
reflective  wrinkles.  "Field!"  he  cried  suddenly,  with  a  jerk, 
and  beamed  at  her.  "  Yes,  your  sister's  name  was  Field.  When 
did  she  die,  Mrs.  Maxwell?" 

"Two  years  ago." 

There  was  a  strange  little  smothered  exclamation  from  some- 


252  JANE  FIELD 

one  near  the  office  door.  Mrs.  Field  turned  suddenly,  and  saw 
her  daughter  Lois  standing  there. 

She  got  up.  "Oh,  it's  you,  Lois,"  she  said  calmly.  "You 
thought  you'd  come  too,  didn't  you?" 

Then  she  turned  to  the  lawyer.  "  I'll  make  you  acquainted 
with  Miss  Lois  Field,"  said  she.  "Lois,  I'll  make  you  ac- 
quainted with  Mr.  Tuxbury." 

The  lawyer  at  once  inferred  that  the  girl  was  her  niece,  and 
insisted  on  their  remaining  to  dinner.  After  that  ordeal  was 
over,  they  soon  left.  When  they  reached  the  Maxwell  place 
Mrs.  Field  stopped,  and  told  her  daughter  what  house  it  was. 
Lois  remonstrated  about  entering,  but  finally  followed  her 
mother  into  the  house. 

Mrs.  Field  took  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  folded  the  shawl 
carefully  in  the  creases,  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  She  pulled 
up  a  curtain.  Then  she  turned,  and  confronted  her  daughter's 
eyes.  The  whole  house  was  to  her  full  of  the  clamor  of  their 
questioning.     She  tried  to  explain  her  position. 

"  I  s'pose  you  heard  what  he  was  sayin'  to  me  when  you  come 
in,  Lois.  I  didn't  tell  him  I  was  your  Aunt  Esther.  The  min- 
ute I  come  in  he  took  me  for  her,  an'  Mis'  Henry  Maxwell  come 
into  his  office,  an'  she  did,  an'  so  did  Mr.  Tuxbury's  sister.  I 
wa'n't  goin'  to  tell  him  I  wa'n't  her.  An'  I'll  tell  you  why. 
I'm  goin'  to  have  that  fifteen  hundred  dollars  of  your  poor 
father's  earnin's  that  I  lent  your  uncle,  out  of  this  property." 

"Then— you'd  got  this— all  planned?" 

Her  mother  took  her  up  sharply. 

"No,  I  hadn't  got  it  all  planned,"  said  she.  "I  don't  deny 
it  come  into  my  head.  I  knew  how  much  folks  said  I  looked 
like  Esther,  but  I  didn't  go  so  far  as  to  plan  it;  there  needn't  any- 
body say  I  did." 

Lois  made  evident  her  distress  and  sorrow  over  her  mother's 
decision  to  remain  in  Elliot,  and  after  they  had  retired  for  the 
night  her  mother  heard  her  get  up  softly,  close  the  door  between 
their  rooms,  and  bolt  it.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  shut 
herself  away  from  her  mother.  The  next  morning  Lois  would 
not  come  to  the  breakfast -table  until  assured  that  the  food  had 
been  bought  with  her  money.  After  breakfast  she  got  her  hat 
and  announced  that  she  was  going  to  the  lawyer's  office  to  tell 


MARY  ELEANOR   WILKINS  253 

him.     Mrs.  Field  reminded  her  that  to  do  so  would  be  to  put 
her  mother  in  state  prison. 

"  Then  I'll  put  you  there,"  said  she,  in  a  cruel  voice.  "  That's 
where  you  ought  to  go,  mother." 

She  went  out  and  sat  huddled  against  one  of  the  porch- 
pillars  most  of  the  day.  In  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Henry  Maxwell, 
whose  name  was  Jane,  called  with  her  young  nephew,  Francis 
Arms.  She  invited  Mrs.  Field  and  Lois  to  take  tea  at  her  house 
the  next  afternoon.  As  the  talk  progressed,  Mrs.  Field  became 
involved  in  difficulties,  as  she  had  been  from  the  start.  She 
could  not  remember  the  young  man,  whom  Esther  Maxwell  w^as 
supposed  to  know  well,  and  Mrs.  Jane  Maxw^ell  commented  on  it. 

"Seems  to  me  it's  dreadful  queer;  I  guess  your  memory  ain't 
as  good  as  mine.  I  s'pose  you're  beginnin'  to  feel  kind  of 
wonted  here,  Esther.  It's  a  pretty  big  house,  but  then  it  ain't 
as  if  you  hadn't  been  here  before.  I  s'pose  it  seems  kind  of 
familiar  to  you,  if  you  ain't  seen  it  for  so  long.  I  s'pose  it  all 
comes  back  to  you,  don't  it?" 

There  was  a  pause. 

'*No,  I'm  afraid  it  don't,"  said  Mrs.  Field.  Ahhough  fairly 
in  the  slough  of  deceit,  she  still  held  up  her  Puritan  skirts. 

At  last  Mrs.  Jane  Maxwell  proposed  that  her  nephew  take 
Lois  over  to  the  cemetery  to  see  a  fine,  large  monument  recently 
placed  there.  As  they  walked  along,  nobody  would  have 
dreamed  how  her  heart,  in  spite  of  the  terrible  exigency  in  which 
she  was  placed,  was  panting  insensibly  with  the  sweet  rhythm 
of  youth.  She  had  not  been  able  to  help  a  strange  feeling  when 
she  first  looked  into  this  young  man's  face.  It  was  as  if  she  were 
suddenly  thrust  from  her  old  familiar  places,  like  a  young  bird 
from  its  nest  into  space,  and  had  to  use  a  strange  new  motion 
of  her  soul  to  keep  herself  from  falling. 

After  seeing  the  monument,  they  sat  down  in  a  beautiful  spot 
at  the  edge  of  the  cemetery,  and  Francis  asked  whether  Lois 
and  her  aunt  were  going  to  live  in  Elliot.  To  his  surprise,  she 
burst  into  tears.  He  tried  to  comfort  her.  After  she  had  re- 
covered herself,  she  asked  whether  he  knew  of  any  school  she 
could  get  to  teach.  Ida  Starr's  father  had  given  the  school  to 
his  daughter^  because  he  thought  Lois  wasn't  able  to  keep  on 
with  it. 


254  JANE  FIELD 

Francis,  indignant  at  her  supposed  aunt's  stinginess,  tried  to 
console  her  in  his  kindly,  boyish  way.  She  did  not  get  a  chance 
to  teach,  but  found  some  sewing  to  do  at  home,  which  gave 
them  a  scanty  living. 

The  next  day  Lois  and  her  mother  went  to  take  tea  with  Mrs. 
Jane  Maxwell.  They  arrived  very  early.  When  Mrs.  Max- 
well appeared,  she  said  her  daughter  Flora  would  be  down 
presently.  She  did  not  come,  however;  and  after  a  while  Lois 
saw  a  young  woman  carrying  a  valise  leave  the  yard.  Presently 
the  other  guests  began  to  arrive,  the  women  coming  first,  includ- 
ing the  minister's  wife.  A  stiff  interchange  of  courtesies  being 
over,  this  lady  spoke  of  having  been  pleasantly  delayed  by  a 
wedding. 

"  I  told  Flora  that  her  mother  must  be  a  brave  woman  to  in- 
vite company  to  tea  the  afternoon  her  daughter  was  married, 
and  I  thought  we  all  ought  to  appreciate  it,"  said  the  minister's 
wife. 

The  other  women  gasped.  Mrs.  Maxwell's  face  was  yellow- 
white  in  its  framework  of  curls,  and  there  was  a  curious  noise 
in  her  throat,  like  the  premonitory  click  of  a  clock  before  striking. 

"Well,"  said  she,  "Flora'd  had  this  day  set  for  the  weddin' 
for  six  months.  It  seemed  best  for  her  to  get  married  without 
any  fuss  at  all  about  it.  An'  I  thought  if  I  had  a  little  company 
to  tea,  it  would  do  as  well  as  a  weddin'." 

Neither  then  nor  afterward  did  she  give  any  sign  of  being 
surprised,  and  no  one  ever  really  foimd  out  whether  she  was  or 
not.  She  got  out  a  fruit-cake,  trimmed  it  with  flowers,  and 
served  it  at  supper  as  "  weddin'  cake  " ;  and  on  the  return  of  the 
runaway  couple  she  met  them  ostentatiously  at  the  station  and 
took  them  home  with  her. 

The  arrival  of  Francis  Arms  lent  an  added  interest  to  the 
tea-party  for  Lois,  but  both  she  and  her  mother  were  glad  when 
the  ordeal  was  over.  Both  took  refuge  then,  as  always  while 
they  stayed  in  Elliot,  in  silence — hers  scared  and  bashful,  Mrs. 
Field's  grim  and  forbidding.  This  alone  was  what  kept  their 
friends  from  ever  suspecting  her  of  masquerading  in  the  r61e  of 
Esther  Maxwell. 

In  August  Amanda  Pratt,  Mrs.  Babcock,  and  Mrs.  Green 
planned  a  visit  to  Elliot  as  a  surprise  to  Mrs.  Field.    A  cheap 


k 


MARY  ELEANOR  WILKINS  255 

railroad  excursion  was  announced,  the  tickets  being  good  for  a 
week.  Their  arrival  at  Elliot,  unannounced,  caused  consterna- 
tion to  Lois  and  her  mother,  and  would  have  complicated  af- 
fairs considerably  if  Jane  Field  had  not  made  herself  so  disliked 
there  that,  with  one  exception,  no  one  called  during  their  stay, 
and  their  hostess  did  not  offer  to  take  them  about.  They  tried 
to  tell  her  all  the  news  of  Green  River,  but  she  showed  no  interest. 
Once,  when  she  had  left  the  room,  Mrs.  Babcock  said  indig- 
nantly: 

"  She  don't  act  to  me  as  if  she  had  any  more  interest  in  Green 
River  than  Jerusalem,  nor  the  folks  that  live  there.  I  keep 
thinkin'  I  won't  tell  her  another  thing  about  it.  I  never  see 
anybody  so  changed  as  she  is." 

"Mebbe  she  ain't  well,"  said  Mrs.  Green.  "I  think  she 
looks  awfully.  She's  as  thin  as  a  rail,  an'  she  ain't  a  mite  of 
color.    Lois  looks  better." 

"Mis'  Field  never  did  have  any  flesh  on  her  bones,"  Mrs. 
Babcock  rejoined.  "An'  as  for  Lois,  nothin'  ever  did  ail  her 
but  spring  weather  an'  fussin'." 

Mrs.  Jane  Maxwell  called  one  evening,  but  apparently  none 
of  them  noticed  that  she  addressed  Mrs.  Field  as  "Esther." 
Strangely  enough,  however,  when  the  danger  of  disclosure  was 
nearly  over,  Jane  Field  suddenly  decided  to  reveal  her  secret. 
One  night  she  lay  awake  through  the  long  hours,  and  in  the 
morning  her  mind  was  made  up.  All  that  day  there  was  a 
strange  look  on  her  face,  and  Lois  noticed  it. 

In  the  afternoon  the  girl  went  out  to  carry  home  some  sew- 
ing. As  she  stepped  along  lightly,  she  did  not  look  like  the  same 
girl  of  three  months  ago.  It  was  strange  that  in  spite  of  all 
her  terrible  distress  of  mind  and  hard  struggles  since  she  had 
come  to  Elliot,  it  should  have  been  so,  but  it  was.  Whether 
she  had  been  afflicted  with  no  real  malady,  only  the  languor  of 
the  spring,  or  whether  it  was  the  purer  air  of  Elliot  that  had 
brought  about  the  change,  she  certainly  was  better. 

On  her  way  home,  as  she  was  passing  the  cemetery,  she  met 
Francis  Arms.  He  stopped  and  reminded  her  that  their  first 
walk  was  taken  there,  and  suggested  that  they  go  in  and  sit 
down  where  they  had  sat  that  time.  Lois  at  first  refused,  but 
finally  consented.    As  they  sat  there  Francis  told  Lois  he  loved 


256  JANE   FIELD 

her,  and  asked  her  to  marry  him.    Lois  began  to  sob,  and 
replied:  "I  can't,  I  can't  anyway!" 

Francis  took  her  reply  in  a  manly  way.  '*  Don't  cry,  dear," 
he  said.  "  It  was  nothing  you  could  help.  I  didn't  much  sup- 
pose you  liked  me.     I'm  an  ordinary  kind  of  fellow." 

He  walked  off  a  little  way,  and  Lois  still  sobbed.  At  last 
she  called  him: 

"I  didn't  say — I  didn't  like  you,"  she  whispered  as  he  drew 
near.  Then  she  told  him  that  some  dreadful  obstacle  would 
prevent  her  marrying.  But  he  waved  her  confession  aside  with 
boyish  hopefulness. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "don't  you  know  that  obstacles  go 
for  nothing  if  you  do  like  me  after  all?" 

Then  they  sat  happily  together  through  the  afternoon. 

Meantime  Mrs.  Field  was  carrying  out  her  fixed  resolve  of 
that  long  night's  wakeful  hours.  She  dressed  herself  in  her  best, 
all  black,  dress,  bonnet,  shawl,  and  gloves.  Then  she  appeared 
before  her  guests. 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter,  Mis'  Field?"  said  Mrs.  Babcock. 
"Where  be  you  goin'?" 

"I'm  goin'  out  a  little  ways,"  replied  Mrs.  Field.  Then  she 
raised  her  voice  suddenly.  "I've  got  something  to  say  to  all  of 
you  before  I  go.  I've  been  deceivin'  you  and  everybody  here 
in  Elliot.  When  I  came  down  here,  they  all  took  me  for  my 
sister,  Esther  Maxwell,  and  I  let  them  think  so.  They've  all 
called  me  Esther  Maxwell  here.  That's  how  I  got  the  money. 
Old  Mr.  Maxwell  left  it  to  Flora  Maxwell  if  my  sister  didn't  out- 
live him.  I  shouldn't  have  had  a  cent.  I  stole  it.  I  thought 
my  daughter  would  die  if  we  didn't  have  it  and  get  away  from 
Green  River;  but  that  wa'n't  any  excuse.  Edward  Maxwell 
had  that  fifteen  hundred  dollars  of  my  husband's,  an'  I  never 
had  a  cent  of  it ;  but  that  wa'n't  any  excuse.  I  thought  I'd  jest 
stay  here  an'  carry  it  out  till  I  got  the  money  back;  but  that 
wa'n't  any  excuse.  I  ain't  spent  a  cent  of  the  money;  it's  all 
put  away  in  a  sugar-bowl  in  the  china-closet;  but  that  ain't  any 
excuse.  I  took  it  on  myself  to  do  justice  instead  of  the  Lord, 
an'  that  ain't  for  any  human  bein'  to  do.  I  ain't  Esther  Max- 
well. I'm  brought  up  short.  I  ain't  Esther  Maxwell!"  Her 
voice  rose  to  a  stern  shriek. 


MARY  ELEANOR   WILKINS  257 

Jane  Field  rushed  out  of  the  room,  and  the  door  closed 
heavily  after  her.  Mrs.  Babcock  called  weakly  after  her  to  come 
back,  but  she  kept  on.  She  went  out  of  the  yard  and  down  the 
street.  At  the  first  house  she  stopped,  went  up  to  the  door, 
and  rang  the  bell.  When  a  woman  answered  her  ring,  she 
looked  at  her  and  said:  "I  ain't  Esther  Maxwell!"  Then  she 
turned  and  went  down  the  walk,  and  the  woman  stood  staring 
after  her  for  a  minute,  then  ran  in,  and  the  windows  were  filled 
with  wondering  faces. 

Jane  Field  stopped  at  the  next  house  with  the  same  message. 
She  kept  on  down  the  street,  and  she  stopped  at  every  door  and 
said:  **I  ain't  Esther  Maxwell."  Now  and  then  somebody 
tried  to  delay  her  to  question  her  and  obtain  an  explanation, 
but  she  broke  away.  There  was  about  her  a  terrible  mental 
impetus  which  intimidated.  People  stood  instinctively  out  of 
her  way,  as  before  some  rushing  force  that  might  overwhelm 
them.  Daniel  Tuxbury  followed  her  out  to  the  street;  then 
he  fell  back.  Mrs.  Jane  Maxwell  caught  hold  of  her  dress,  but 
she  let  go,  and  leaned  trembling  over  her  iron  gate,  looking  after 
the  relentless  black  figure  speeding  to  the  next  door. 

She  went  on  and  on,  all  the  summer  afternoon,  and  canvassed 
the  little  village  with  her  remorse  and  confession  of  crime.  Fi- 
nally the  four  words  that  she  said  at  the  doors  seemed  almost 
involuntary.  They  became  her  one  natural  note,  the  expression 
of  her  whole  life.     It  was  as  if  she  never  had  uttered  any  others. 

At  last  she  returned  home.  Some  persons  had  followed  her, 
and  entered  with  her,  Mr.  Tuxbury,  his  sister  and  her  daughter, 
the  minister  and  his  wife,  Mrs.  Jane  Maxwell  and  Flora,  the 
real  legatee  of  old  Thomas  Maxwell.  In  the  room  also  were  her 
three  Green  River  friends  and  Lois.  Jane  Field  faced  them 
all  and  said  again:  "I  ain't  Esther  Maxwell." 

Mr.  Tuxbury  declared  that  her  mind  was  affected.  Lois 
clung  to  her,  moaning,  "Mother!  mother!" 

Then  for  once  her  mother  varied  her  set  speech. 

"Lois  wa'n't  to  blame,"  she  said.  "I  want  you  to  know  it, 
all  of  you.  Lois  wa'n't  to  blame.  She  didn't  know  until  after 
I'd  done  it.  She  wanted  to  tell,  but  I  told  her  they'd  put  me 
in  prison.     Lois  wa'n't  to  blame.     I  ain't  Esther  Maxwell." 

"Oh,  mother,  don't,  don't!"  Lois  sobbed.    But  she  kept  re- 

A.D.,   VOL.    XVII. — 17 


25*  JANE   FIELD 

peating  at  intervals,  in  precisely  the  same  tone,  her  terrible 
underchord  to  all  the  excitement  about  her :  "  I  ain't  Esther  Max- 
well." 

The  women  led  Jane  Field  into  her  little  bedroom,  took  off 
her  bonnet  and  shawl  and  dress  as  if  she  were  dead,  and  made 
her  lie  down.  They  bathed  her  head  with  camphor,  they  plied 
her  with  soothing  arguments,  but  she  continued  her  one  strain. 
She  was  singularly  docile  in  all  but  that.  Mrs.  Green  dropped 
on  her  knees  beside  the  bed  and  prayed.  When  she  said  Amen, 
Jane  Field  called  out  her  confession  as  if  in  the  ear  of  God. 
They  sent  for  the  doctor,  and  he  gave  her  a  soothing  draught 
and  she  slept.  The  women  watched  with  her,  as  ever  and 
anon  she  stirred  and  murmured  in  her  sleep,  "I  ain't  Esther 
Maxwell."     And  she  said  it  when  she  first  awoke  in  the  morning. 

"She's  sayin'  it  now,"  whispered  Mrs.  Babcock  to  Mrs. 
Green,  "and  I  believe  she'll  say  it  her  whole  life." 

And  Jane  Field  did.  The  stern  will  of  the  New  England 
woman  had  warped  her  whole  nature  into  one  groove.  Grad- 
ually she  seemed  more  like  herself,  and  her  mind  was  in  other 
respects  apparently  clear,  but  never  did  she  meet  a  stranger 
unless  she  said  for  greeting,  "  I  ain't  Esther  Maxwell." 

And  she  said  it  to  her  own  daughter  on  her  wedding-day, 
when  she  came  in  her  white  dress  from  the  minister's  with  Fran- 
cis. The  new  joy  in  Lois's  face  affected  her  like  the  face  of  a 
stranger,  and  she  turned  on  her  and  said :  "  I  ain't  Esther  Max- 
weU." 


ELLEN    PRICE   WOOD 

(MRS.    HENRY   WOOD) 

(England,  1814-1887) 
EAST  LYNNE   (1861) 

This  was  Mrs.  Wood's  second  novel,  and  its  immediate  and  great  success 
determined  her  career.  It  was  followed  by  more  than  thirty,  some  of  which 
appeared  after  her  death.  This  story  was  dramatized  soon  after  its  appearance 
and  made  a  phenomenal  success;  it  still  holds  the  boards  in  England  and  the 
United  States. 

[S  William,  Earl  of  Mount  Severn,  sat  in  the  library 
of  his  town- house  one  afternoon,  his  sensations 
were  anything  but  pleasant.  His  gout  was  trou- 
blesome, but  even  more  conducive  to  his  discom- 
fort was  the  enormous  pile  of  papers  before  him 
on  the  table.  Debt!  debt!  debt!  Sixty  thousand 
per  annum  wiU  keep  a  man's  head  above  water 
for  a  time,  but  not  forever.  Therefore,  when  the 
well-known  lawyer,  Archibald  Carlyle,  unex- 
pectedly made  him  an  offer  for  his  estate,  East  Lynne,  he  was 
much  more  relieved  than  pained  at  the  suggestion.  Terms  were 
soon  agreed  on,  the  Earl  asking  but  two  favors — that  the  sale 
might  '.^e  k?pt  secret  for  a  time,  and  that  he  might  take  his  daugh- 
ter, the  Lady  Isabel,  to  the  old  place  for  a  short  visit  before 
leaving  it  forever.  Mr.  Carlyle  cordially  granted  both  requests. 
Mr.  Carlyle  lived  in  the  neighboring  town  of  West  Lynne.  He 
was  seven- and-t wen ty,  unmarried,  a  man  of  distinguished  ap- 
pearance, an  able  lawyer,  and  possessing  the  unbounded  respect 
of  his  fellow  townsmen. 

On  the  evening  when  the  negotiations  wxre  begun  he  dined 
informally  with  the  Earl  and  met  his  daughter,  the  Lady  Isabel. 
A  lovelier  vision  never  greeted  the  eye  than  appeared  in  the  state- 

259 


26o  EAST  LYNNE 

ly  dining-room  when  she  joined  her  father  and  his  guest  at  din- 
ner. She  was  eighteen  years  of  age,  was  going  out  for  the  eve- 
ning, and  her  exquisite  dress  of  white  lace  set  off  her  beauty  to 
perfection. 

"Is  she  not  a  handsome  girl?"  asked  the  Earl  proudly,  as  she 
left  the  room. 

''I  never  saw  a  face  half  so  beautiful,"  was  Mr.  Carlyle's 
response. 

"And  she  is  as  good  as  she  is  beautiful,"  said  the  Earl  a  little 
sadly,  thinking  of  the  impossibility  of  providing  for  her  future  as 
he  wished  to  do. 

As  agreed  upon,  the  Earl,  his  daughter,  and  his  servants  re- 
moved to  East  Lynne.  The  residents  of  West  Lynne,  knowing 
nothing  of  the  change  in  ownership,  were  delighted  at  the  com- 
ing of  the  great  family,  and  hoped  that  at  last  the  Earl  was  to 
make  the  place  his  permanent  home.  One  family  in  West 
Lynne  was  especially  interested  in  the  arrival — the  family  of 
Justice  Hare.  The  Justice  was  a  man  of  influence  and  wealth; 
his  family  consisted  of  his  wife  and  a  daughter,  Barbara.  There 
was  a  son,  Richard,  but  his  name  never  was  mentioned  in  the 
presence  of  the  Justice.  He  was,  in  fact,  a  fugitive  from  the 
law,  under  the  charge  of  murdering  a  neighbor,  Hallijohn  by 
name.  Richard  had  been  paying  attention  to  the  pretty  but 
unprincipled  daughter  of  Hallijohn,  against  his  father's  wishes, 
intending  to  marry  her  as  soon  as  he  became  of  age.  It  was 
supposed  that  the  youth  was  angered  by  something  Hallijohn 
said,  and  kiUed  him.  At  all  events,  the  jury  decided  against 
him.  The  Hares  and  Carlyles  were  old  friends,  and  Barbara 
had  long  believed  that  she  would  some  time  be  the  mistress  of 
Mr.  Carlyle's  home.  When  the  titled  beauty  came  into  the 
neighborhood,  therefore,  she  was  much  excited  over  the  event. 

The  Earl  had  intended  to  remain  at  East  Lynne  only  a  fort- 
night, but  when  his  preparations  for  leaving  were  nearly  com- 
pleted a  severe  attack  of  gout  prostrated  him.  A  second,  fol- 
lowing quickly,  proved  too  much  for  a  frame  already  enfeebled, 
though  he  was  but  forty-nine  years  of  age,  and  he  died  in  the 
home  of  his  ancestors,  not  its  owner  but  a  guest  of  Mr.  Carlyle. 
The  house  was  soon  filled  with  creditors,  and  the  Lady  Isabel 
learned  that  she  was  not  only  fatherless,  but  homeless  and  pen- 


ELLEN  PRICE   WOOD  261 

niless.  The  new  Lord  Mount  Severn  offered  her  a  home,  and 
ahhough  she  knew  that  she  would  not  be  welcome  to  his  wife, 
she  was  forced  to  accept  the  invitation.  In  a  few  days,  heart- 
broken, she  left  East  Lynne,  never,  as  she  supposed,  to  return. 

She  was  coldly  welcomed  by  the  new  Earl's  wife,  and  the 
winter  passed  in  dreary  isolation.  Just  before  Easter,  Lady 
Mount  Severn  was  annoyed  at  receiving  word  that  her  grand- 
mother, Mrs.  Levison,  was  to  spend  a  few  weeks  with  her.  She 
came,  and  with  her  came  a  grandson.  Captain  Francis  Levison, 
a  cousin  of  Lady  Mount  Severn.  He  was  considered  a  great 
catch  in  the  fashionable  world;  for  he  had  a  handsome  face,  fine 
figure,  fascinating  manners,  and  was  the  presumptive  heir  of  Sir 
Peter  Levison.  Isabel  had  met  him  once  before,  and  he  had 
attracted  her  attention  by  his  graces.  Now  he  attached  himself 
to  her,  and  in  her  loneliness  she  found  his  companionship  most 
agreeable.  One  afternoon  he  invited  her  out  for  a  stroU  and 
in  the  enjoyment  of  having  an  admiring  friend  with  her,  she 
stayed  in  the  grounds  until  nearly  dinner-time.  As  her  maid 
was  hastening  her  toilet.  Lady  Mount  Severn  burst  in  with 
words  of  abuse  for  her  "flirting  so  outrageously,"  and  angrily 
struck  her  on  both  cheeks.  She,  an  Earl's  daughter,  had  been 
struck  before  a  servant,  by  a  woman  of  much  lower  birth! 
She  began  to  plan  escape  from  a  position  now  intolerable. 

The  following  day,  taking  advantage  of  the  absence  of  Lady 
Mount  Severn,  the  Lady  Isabel  went  to  the  library,  and  while 
she  was  revolving  plans,  a  caller  was  ushered  in  before  she  had 
time  to  hide  her  tear-stained  cheeks.  This  was  Mr.  Carlyle. 
He  had  from  his  first  meeting  with  her  felt  a  warm  attachment 
for  the  lovely  girl,  and  now  he  was  deeply  touched  by  her  evi- 
dent unhappiness.  When  he  left,  Isabel  was  his  promised  wife, 
and  within  a  month  she  returned  to  East  Lynne  as  its  mistress. 

More  than  a  year  passed,  and  one  day  the  Lady  Isabel  lay 
hovering  between  life  and  death.  A  little  Isabel  Lucy  lay  on  the 
nurse's  lap.  The  nurse,  watching  the  pale  mother,  saw  a  new 
light  come  into  the  eyes,  and  knew  that  the  worst  was  over.  The 
next  day,  lying  in  a  quiet  rest.  Lady  Isabel  heard  two  maids  talk- 
ing in  the  next  room.  One  of  them  had  been  employed  at  Jus- 
tice Hare's,  and  the  unwilling  listener  realized  that  the  two  were 
discussing  the  affairs  of  Barbara  and  Mr.  Carlyle. 


262  EAST  LYNNE 

"  She  is  as  much  in  love  with  him  now  as  ever,  too,"  said  one. 

''She  must  be  stupid  to  care  for  someone  who  doesn't  care 
for  her,"  said  the  Lady  Isabel's  especial  maid,  Joyce. 

"I've  seen  him  kiss  her,"  said  the  other  slyly.  "She  loves 
him,  and  if  anything  happens  to  my  lady  she'll  step  into  her 
shoes." 

"Nothing's  going  to  happen  to  my  lady,"  said  Joyce  indig- 
nandy. 

All  this  Lady  Isabel  heard  as  she  lay  weak  and  nerveless  on 
the  bed.  Barbara  Hare  had  already  shown  a  disposition  to 
monopolize  Mr.  Carlyle,  and  a  pang  of  jealousy  shot  through 
Isabel's  heart.     When  her  husband  entered  she  called  him. 

"Archibald,"  she  whispered,  "if  I  should  die,  do  not  marry 
her." 

"Marry  whom?"  he  asked  in  amazement. 

"Barbara  Hare." 

"You  have  been  dreaming,  Isabel.  I  never  have  loved  any- 
one but  the  woman  I  married.  Barbara  cannot  come  between 
us." 

It  happened  about  this  time  that  certain  events  occurred 
which  gave  a  color  of  truth  to  Richard  Hare's  oft-repeated  as- 
sertion of  innocence.  He  had  made  a  secret  visit  to  his  mother 
and  sister,  and  Mr.  Carlyle,  as  friend  and  lawyer,  was  often 
called  on  by  them  for  advice.  Isabel  knew  nothing  of  the  dis- 
grace that  shadowed  the  Hares,  and  her  husband  did  not  wish 
to  tell  her  of  the  murder  till  Richard  was  cleared — as  he  believed 
he  would  be.  She  saw  Barbara  at  the  door  of  her  husband's 
office,  and  she  knew  that  he  made  visits  at  the  Hares',  and  these 
unexplained  meetings  troubled  her  sometimes,  but  she  loved  and 
trusted  her  husband,  and  was  constantly  growing  happier  in  her 
married  life.  Three  or  four  years  passed,  and  after  a  long  illness 
the  physician  prescribed  a  change  of  air  as  the  only  sure  remedy 
for  her  weakness.  So  her  husband  took  her  to  Boulogne-sur- 
Mer,  leaving  her  under  the  care  of  Joyce.  It  had  been  deemed 
best  that  the  three  children  should  remain  at  home. 

One  morning  while  she  was  enjoying  the  sensation  of  return- 
ing strength,  sitting  on  the  promenade  along  the  sea,  to  her  as- 
tonishment and  distress  Francis  Levison  appeared  before  her. 
She  had  almost  forgotten  his  existence,  but  something  in  his  man- 


ELLEN  PRICE   WOOD  263 

ner  alarmed  her.  She  wrote  at  once  for  her  husband,  asking  him 
to  come  and  take  her  home;  but  he,  after  seeing  her  improve- 
ment, urged  her  to  remain  a  little  longer.  She  could  not  tell 
him  the  real  reason  of  her  desire  to  go  back  with  him,  so  she 
stayed  until  the  appointed  time  had  passed.  Then,  with  a  sigh 
of  relief,  she  returned  to  East  Lynne.  But  on  the  way  she  heard 
with  dismay  that  Mr.  Carlyle  had  invited  Levison  to  his  house 
for  a  few  days,  in  order  that  some  business  might  be  more  speed- 
ily despatched. 

Almost  simultaneously  with  the  arrival  of  Francis  Levison 
at  East  Lynne,  Richard  Hare  made  a  secret  visit  to  his  mother 
and  sister.  Barbara  came  to  the  house  to  consult  with  Mr. 
Carlyle,  and  he  often  went  with  her  to  her  home,  there  to  see 
Richard  himself.  He  learned  facts  so  startling  that  he  believed 
he  had  the  real  murderer  almost  in  hand.  Many  and  long  were 
the  conferences  between  the  anxious  mother  and  sister  and  the 
lawyer,  and  always  the  greatest  care  was  exercised  to  keep  them 
from  anyone's  knowledge.  It  was  not  strange  that  the  Lady 
Isabel  became,  first,  perplexed  by  these  interviews,  of  which 
she  could  not  help  having  some  knowledge,  then  hurt,  and  finally 
suspicious.  Captain  Levison,  determined  to  undermine  her 
affection  for  her  husband,  fanned  the  jealous  flame  already 
kindled. 

Mr.  Carlyle  and  the  Lady  Isabel  were  invited  one  evening 
to  a  dinner-party  at  a  neighboring  house,  and  the  invitation  had 
been  accepted.  But,  at  almost  the  last  moment,  the  lawyer  told 
his  wife  that  he  could  not  go,  as  he  had  an  important  engagement 
at  the  office. 

"You  must  not  be  vexed,  Isabel,"  he  said,  seeing  that  she  was 
offended  as  weU  as  disappointed. 

"You  never  have  been  in  the  habit  of  going  back  to  the  office 
in  the  evening,"  she  said,  a  swift  and  horrible  suspicion  making 
her  grow  white  and  faint. 

"Usually  Dill  can  attend  to  anything  that  comes  up;  but  this 
is  something  I  must  attend  to  myself,"  he  said,  and  offering  to 
see  her  to  the  carriage,  he  hurried  away.  The  Lady  Isabel  was 
angry  and  deeply  hurt.  Jealousy  had  her  in  its  grip.  On  her 
way  home  from  the  dinner,  as  she  was  brooding  over  these 
inexplicable  engagements  of  her  husband's,  her  carriage  was 


264  EAST   LYNNE 

stopped  and  a  gentleman  tapped  on  the  window.  It  was  Cap- 
tain Levison.     She  did  not  wish  his  company,  but  he  said  lightly : 

"I've  walked  till  I'm  tired  out.  Will  you  give  me  a  seat 
home?" 

She  could  not  refuse  such  a  request  from  a  guest,  and  as  he 
sprang  in,  he  told  the  coachman  to  take  the  High  Road.  That 
road  led  past  Justice  Hare's.  As  the  carriage  passed,  distinctly 
in  the  moonlight  the  Lady  Isabel  saw  her  husband  and  Barbara 
pacing  back  and  forth,  evidently  in  close  conversation.  Poor 
Lady  Isabel!  If  she  had  but  known  that  they  were  guarding 
the  house,  while  Richard  was  having  a  glimpse  of  his  mother 
inside,  how  different  the  future  might  have  been.  But  the  man 
at  her  side  poured  into  her  ears  assurances  of  Mr.  Carlyle's 
falseness  and  of  his  own  true  love.  When  the  household  at 
East  Lynne  awoke  in  the  morning,  the  Lady  Isabel  had  fled 
with  the  scoundrel  who  had  long  plotted  her  ruin. 

Nearly  a  year  went  by.  Never  had  Mr.  Carlyle  mentioned 
the  Lady  Isabel,  except  in  connection  with  the  divorce  suit  that 
he  at  once  began.  He  was  absolutely  true  to  his  wife,  and  never 
had  dreamed  of  her  suspicions  or  unhappiness.  She,  alas!  had 
spent  the  year  in  a  state  of  mingled  shame  and  remorse  impos- 
sible to  describe.  Often  alone  and  neglected,  and  perhaps  even 
more  miserable  when  with  her  betrayer,  who  was  coarse  and 
cruel,  she  was  awaiting  with  impatience  the  news  that  the  di- 
vorce suit  was  over — that  Captain  Levison  might  give  his  name 
to  her  expected  child.  Of  herself  she  no  longer  thought.  One 
morning,  as  they  were  at  breakfast,  two  letters  were  handed  to 
Levison.  One  he  put  into  his  inner  pocket,  after  reading.  The 
other  he  threw  down  on  the  table.  Then  he  announced  his 
intention  of  going  at  once  to  England,  as  Sir  Peter  had  died  and 
he  had  come  into  the  property.  ^'At  last,  thank  the  pigs!"  was 
his  brutal  comment  on  his  grandfather's  death. 

The  Lady  Isabel,  ignorant  that  the  first  letter  contained  the 
information  that  the  divorce  had  been  decreed,  implored  Sir 
Francis  to  remain  for  but  a  short  time,  that  they  might  be  mar- 
ried as  soon  as  she  was  free  to  marry.  But  he  had  no  such 
idea.  He  broke  away  from  her,  and  when  she  next  saw  him  her 
nameless  child  was  several  months  old.  She  then  repudiated 
him  forever,  and  he  left,  glad  to  be  rid  of  the  burden.     He  offered 


ELLEN  PRICE   WOOD  265 

her  money,  but  that,  too,  she  declined.  She  set  out  for  Paris.  In 
a  railway  accident  her  child  and  nurse  were  killed,  and  her  name 
was  printed  among  the  dead.  A  year  after  the  news  reached 
East  Lynne  Mr.  Carlyle  married  Barbara  Hare. 

Time  passed  on,  and  a  year  later  Mrs.  Carlyle's  governess 
left  her,  and  she  asked  a  friend  on  the  Continent  to  find  one  for 
her.  A  finished  scholar  in  French  and  German,  and  a  fine 
musician — these  were  the  especial  requirements.  At  a  German 
watering-place  Mrs.  Latimer  heard  of  a  most  desirable  person. 

"She  is  the  oddest -looking  creature,"  she  wrote,  "wears  blue 
spectacles,  enormous  caps,  and  has  a  deep  scar  on  her  mouth 
and  chin.     But  she  is  a  treasure,  and  a  perfect  gentlewoman." 

Mrs.  Carlyle  laughed  at  the  description,  but  engaged  her  at 
once.  Her  name  was  Madame  Vine  (pronounced  Veen).  When 
the  place  was  offered  to  Madame  Vine,  she  hesitated,  but  after 
consideration  took  it.  And  so  the  Lady  Isabel,  disfigured  but 
not  killed  in  the  accident,  came  back  to  East  Lynne  as  the  gov- 
erness of  her  children.  In  spite  of  her  changed  appearance,  she 
was  constantly  uneasy  lest  her  identity  should  be  discovered, 
and,  in  truth,  the  agony  of  self-reproach  that  tortured  her  as  she 
realized  what  she  had  thrown  away  and  what  an  inheritance  of 
disgrace  she  had  left  to  her  children,  brought  her  more  than 
once  to  a  point  where  self-disclosure  seemed  inevitable. 

Six  months  passed,  and  changes  were  at  hand  in  the  Carlyle 
family.  William,  the  eldest  boy,  was  seriously  ill;  consumption 
was  making  rapid  strides  in  its  fatal  course.  And  while  Mr. 
Carlyle's  heart  was  grieving  over  this  knowledge,  his  public 
duties  were  increased  by  his  election  to  Parliament.  The  con- 
test had  been  painful,  because  his  opponent  had  been  the  man 
who  had  wronged  him  but  a  few  years  before.  Sir  Francis  Levi- 
son,  and  he  was  relieved  when  it  was  over.  The  knowledge  that 
her  betrayer  was  in  the  neighborhood,  combined  with  sorrow 
at  the  illness  of  her  darling  son,  ffected  the  health  of  the  gov- 
erness, and  it  soon  became  evident  that  she  must  seek  a  warmer 
climate  or  she  would  not  regain  her  strength.  A  most  terrible 
shock  was  still  in  store  for  the  unhappy  Madame  Vine — the  con- 
viction, soon  after  Mr.  Carlyle's  election,  of  Sir  Francis  Levison 
for  the  murder  of  Hallijohn.  The  evidence  was  complete.  Rich- 
ard Hare  was  cleared,  and  Sir  Francis  was  condemned  to  death. 


266  EAST  LYNNE 

Not  only  had  the  Lady  Isabel  abandoned  her  husband  and  chil- 
dren for  suspicions  which  she  had  learned  were  perfectly  ground- 
less, but  she  had  committed  herself  to  the  care  of  a  murderer. 

The  evening  after  Carlyle's  election  there  was  a  large  dinner- 
party at  East  Lynne,  and  the  family  had  hardly  retired  when 
an  alarm  of  fire  brought  all  into  the  halls  in  consternation.  The 
alarm  proved  to  be  false,  but  after  Mr.  Carlyle  had  again  retired, 
a  scream  from  Joyce  brought  him  back  to  the  hall. 

**  Joyce,  what  is  the  matter?"  he  asked,  wondering  at  her 
pallid  face. 

"  Oh,  master,"  she  wailed,  "  I've  seen  a  specter." 

"  Joyce  must  have  been  reading  a  ghost -book,"  he  said  to  his 
wife,  when  he  finally  settled  down  for  the  night.  He  little  imag- 
ined that  in  the  governess,  who  had  forgotten  her  disguise  in  the 
excitement,  Joyce  had  recognized  his  former  wife. 

The  only  bad  effects  of  the  false  alarm  of  fire  fell  upon  the 
little  William.  He  took  a  cold,  which  hastened  the  progress  of 
the  disease,  and  the  governess  had  the  pain  of  seeing  her  own 
child  rapidly  fading  away,  while  she  was  unable  to  give  utterance 
to  the  grief  that  rent  her  maternal  heart.  After  his  death  she 
felt  her  own  hold  on  life  to  be  so  frail  that  she  determined  to 
leave  East  Lynne  at  once.  She  could  not  die  under  that  roof. 
But  even  for  that  act  she  was  too  weak,  and  one  evening  she 
called  Joyce  to  her  bedside;  for  with  her  she  had  already  had  a 
confidential  conversation,  and  the  maid  had  proved  a  kind,  faith- 
ful friend.  Mrs.  Carlyle  was  at  the  seaside,  and  Mr.  Carlyle 
had  spent  but  little  time  at  East  Lynne  for  several  weeks.  The 
Lady  Isabel  felt  that  death  was  near,  and  she  asked  to  see  Mr. 
Carlyle.  He  was  to  be  at  home  for  the  night,  and  she  had  heard 
his  familiar  step  in  the  rooms  below.  When  he  was  told  of  her 
condition,  as  his  wife  was  absent,  he  went  immediately  to  her 
room.  As  he  entered  and  looked  at  the  white  face  on  the  pillow, 
his  own  heart  almost  ceased  to  beat.  He  drew  back  a  step,  but 
she  held  out  her  hand. 

*' Archibald,"  she  said  feebly. 

"Isabel!"  he  exclaimed,  coming  toward  her,  ''are  you  Ma- 
dame Vine?" 

"I  did  not  die,"  she  murmured.     "Archibald,  forgive  me." 

"Why  did  you  come  back?" 


ELLEN  PRICE   WOOD  267 

"I  could  not  live  away  from  my  children  and  you,"  she  said. 
"I  would  have  come  back  within  an  hour,  but  I  did  not  know 
how/' 

"Why  did  you  go?" 

"  I  loved  you  dearly,  and  I  grew  suspicious.  I  thought  your 
love  was  all  given  to  another.  That  wicked  man  tempted  me  to 
take  revenge  on  you.  Archibald,  I  am  on  the  threshold  of  an- 
other world.  Can  you  not  speak  one  word  of  love?  My  heart 
is  breaking  for  it.  My  sin  was  great,  but,  oh,  my  punishment 
has  been  greater.     Forgive,  oh,  forgive." 

Mr.  Carlyle  bent  toward  her,  gently  pushed  back  her  soft 
hair,  and  his  tears  dropped  on  her  face. 

"You  nearly  broke  mine  when  you  went  away,  Isabel." 
Then  he  added  solemnly :  "  May  God  bless  you  and  take  you  to 
His  rest  in  heaven.  May  he  so  deal  with  me  as  I  now  fully  and 
freely  forgive  you." 

"To  His  rest  in  heaven,"  she  murmured  faintly. 

A  few  days  later  a  grave  was  made  by  the  side  of  the  former 
earl,  and  the  marble  head-stone  bore  the  initials,  "  I.  M.  V." 


JOHANN   RUDOLPH   WYSS 

(Switzerland,  1 781-1830) 
THE   SWISS  FAMILY  ROBINSON   (1813) 

Dr.  Wyss,  professor  of  philosophy  in  the  Academy  at  Bern,  and  chief 
librarian,  wrote  several  books  on  moral  philosophy  and  travel  and  made  a  col- 
lection of  Swiss  idyls,  legends,  etc.,  but  all  his  work  that  is  known  to  English- 
speaking  folk  is  contained  in  the  first  part  of  the  journal  entitled  Der  Schweize- 
hische  Robinson.  This  interesting  tale  of  domestic  life  and  adventure  on  a 
desert  island,  which  appeared  many  years  ago  in  English  translation,  was  left 
unfinished  by  reason  of  the  author's  death,  but  was  so  welcome  in  France  that 
the  Baroness  de  Montolieu,  an  accomplished  and  elegant  writer,  completed  it  by 
writing  Part  II  of  the  journal,  as  if  by  the  same  hand,  and  with  a  most  successful 
imitation  of  the  detailed  style  of  the  original  author.  It  was  all  published  in 
French,  and  afterward  the  complete  story  in  English  as  we  have  it,  which  for 
generations  has  been  a  favorite  juvenile  classic,  almost  as  well  beloved  as  its 
prototype,  Robinson  Crusoe. 


[he  writer  of  the  following  journal  was  a  Swiss 
clergyman  named  Robinson,  who,  having  lost  his 
fortune  in  the  Revolution  of  1798,  had  emigrated 
with  his  wife  and  four  sons,  taking  tools,  imple- 
ments, seeds,  and  cattle,  and  on  the  way  to 
Otaheite  was  wrecked  on  an  uncharted  island. 
The  captain  and  the  crew,  who  took  to  the  boats, 
were  nevermore  heard  from;  but  the  family,  left 
on  the  broken  ship,  escaped  to  the  shore  after  the 

storm.     Their  adventures  on  the  island  were  related  by  the 

father,  in  the  journal  herewith  presented. 

The  tempest  had  raged  for  six  days,  and  still  increased;  the 
ship  was  far  astray  from  her  course  and  leaking  badly,  when  she 
struck  and  was  wedged  between  the  rocks,  raising  the  stern  out 
of  the  water.  The  captain  and  sailors  took  the  boats  and 
passed  off,  while  I,  with  all  that  I  held  dear,  remained  on  the 
wreck  all  night  in  the  frightful  tempest. 

268 


JOHANN  RUDOLPH  WYSS  269 

Next  morning  the  sun  rose  clear,  the  wind  and  sea  subsided, 
and,  commending  ourselves  to  God,  we  prepared  to  attempt 
getting  ashore.  First,  we  collected  what  might  serve  us  if  we 
escaped.  Fritz,  our  eldest,  brought  two  fowling-pieces,  with 
powder  and  shot,  and  some  balls;  Ernest,  an  ax,  hammer,  and 
divers  tools;  little  Francis,  a  box  of  fish-hooks  and  lines;  my 
wife  had  found  and  fed  a  cow,  an  ass,  two  goats,  six  sheep,  and 
a  sow  with  young,  while  Jack  brought  the  captain's  two  large 
dogs,  Turk  and  Flora. 

We  sawed  casks  asunder  and  nailed  the  eight  tubs  on  a  large 
plank,  fastening  them  together  and  guarding  each  side  with  a 
plank,  then,  with  a  jack-screw  and  rollers,  we  raised  and  launched 
our  rough  boat.  This  consumed  the  day.  The  next  morning 
we  loaded  our  conveyance  with  many  more  necessary  articles, 
fed  the  animals  left  behind,  took  hens  and  cocks  with  us  (the 
ducks  and  geese  coming  by  water,  and  the  pigeons  by  flight), 
implored  God's  blessing,  and  embarked.  The  land  was  some 
distance  away,  but  by  hard  rowing  and  studying  the  currents  we 
finally  entered  a  little  bay,  the  mouth  of  a  creek,  and  amid  a 
Babel  of  noises  from  our  poultry,  reenforced  by  harsh  cries  from 
penguins  and  flamingoes,  we  safely  landed,  kneeled  and  thanked 
God,  our  preserver,  and  unloaded  our  vessel. 

I  kindled  a  fire ;  my  wife  put  on  the  pot  with  water  from  the 
creek  and  some  squares  of  portable  soup;  Fritz  went  off  with 
his  gun  and  soon  returned  with  an  agouti,  a  little  burrowing 
animal  with  flesh  something  like  the  rabbit,  and  Jack  caught  a 
big  lobster.  We  soon  had  a  comforting  meal.  Under  the 
shade  of  the  rocks  we  set  poles  and  stretched  a  big  sail-cloth  for 
shelter,  and  by  night  we  were  glad  to  creep  under  it  and  snuggle 
together  for  warmth.  After  breakfasting  on  Jack's  lobster  and 
some  biscuit,  we  had  prayers,  and  then  Fritz  and  I  set  out  with 
the  dogs,  our  guns,  and  a  telescope,  to  survey  our  domain  and 
look  for  our  shipmates. 

We  ascended  the  bed  of  the  river,  shut  in  by  rocks,  till  we 
gained  a  broken  passage  that  crossed  it  over  a  cascade,  and  then 
proceeded,  with  the  sea  on  our  left  and  a  chain  of  rocks  on  our 
right,  often  passing  through  little  woods.  We  came  upon  a 
cocoanut  tree,  a  fallen  nut  enlivening  our  luncheon,  and  a 
gourd  tree,  at  which  we  fashioned  some  bowls  and  spoons, 


270  THE   SWISS  FAMILY  ROBINSON 

leaving  them  to  dry.  A  high  promontory  gave  us  a  fine  sea- 
view,  but  no  sign  of  our  shipmates.  Passing  through  a  mass  of 
reeds,  and  cutting  one  for  a  stick,  I  found  it  rich  with  a  sweet, 
glutinous  juice;  it  was  sugar-cane.  A  cocoanut  grove  tantalized 
us  with  unattainable  fruit,  till  we  stoned  some  monkeys  in  the 
branches  and  they  retorted  by  pelting  us  with  cocoanuts.  We 
were  returning,  loaded  with  nuts  and  sugar-cane,  when  Turk 
attacked  and  killed  a  female  monkey,  and  her  little  one  sprang 
upon  Fritz's  shoulder;  so  we  took  the  small  orphan  with  us,  and 
we  were  soon  enjoying  a  fine  supper  of  fish,  roast  goose,  and 
oysters,  with  cocoanuts  for  dessert. 

The  next  day  Fritz  and  I  went  to  the  ship,  where  we  fed  the 
animals,  fitted  our  vessel  with  a  mast  and  sail,  loaded  it  with 
divers  necessaries  and  comforts,  eatables,  drinkables,  agricul- 
tural implements,  arms,  ammunition,  sulphur  for  matches,  cord, 
sail-cloth,  seeds,  potatoes,  hammocks,  blankets,  etc.,  and  spent 
the  night  in  the  boat,  lest  the  ship  should  slide  off  the  rocks. 
Next  morning  we  contrived  swimming-supports  of  kegs  for  the 
cow,  ass,  and  sow,  with  casks  for  the  sheep  and  goats,  and  pulled 
for  the  shore  with  our  flock  in  tow,  all  safely  coming  to  land. 

We  supped  on  a  big  omelet  of  turtles'  eggs  and  Dutch  cheese, 
finishing  with  a  bottle  of  the  Captain's  Canary  wine.  My  wife 
and  the  boys  had  found  a  grove  of  lofty  trees,  with  great  trunks 
nearly  twelve  feet  in  thickness,  in  the  branches  of  which  she 
begged  me  to  build  a  dwelling,  where  we  could  escape  the  hot  sun 
of  our  tent  on  the  rocks,  and  sleep  without  fear  of  animals  or 
savages.  The  next  day  Fritz,  Ernest,  and  I  went  again  to  the 
ship,  for  planks  with  which  to  bridge  the  little  river  and  to  make 
our  projected  tree-house.  We  found  numberless  planks,  spars, 
and  yards  washed  ashore  from  the  ship,  and  these  we  rafted  and 
turned  back  to  our  bay.  With  the  cow  and  the  ass  we  hauled 
many  up  the  bank,  and  bridged  our  eighteen-foot  river  with  four 
strong  beams,  hauling  them  across  with  a  pulley.  Loose  planks, 
easily  removable,  made  a  passageway  ten  feet  broad.  Thor- 
oughly fatigued,  we  went  home,  supped,  offered  our  thanks  to 
God,  and  rested  serenely. 

On  the  morrow  we  made  a  patriarchal  procession — ^heavy 
bags,  with  provisions,  tools,  etc.,  on  the  backs  of  the  cow  and 
ass,  the  fowls  tied  in  baskets,  the  goats  driven  by  Jack,  the 


JOHANN  RUDOLPH  WYSS  271 

sheep  by  Ernest,  Fritz  and  his  mother  leading  the  way,  and  I, 
with  the  dogs,  guarding  the  whole.  Arrived  at  the  grove,  we 
hung  the  hammocks  under  their  high  roots  arching  out  of  the 
ground,  and  over  them  a  sail-cloth  for  protection  from  the  night- 
dews.  After  dinner  Flora  flushed  several  beautiful  flamingoes, 
at  which  Fritz  shot,  killing  one  and  wounding  another,  but  so 
slightly  that  we  dressed  the  wound  and  hoped  to  tame  the  crea- 
ture, which  soon  became  domesticated. 

I  measured  the  height  of  our  trees  by  triangulation,  and 
found  them  thirty  feet  to  the  lowest  branches.  With  a  bow  I 
sent  an  arrow  bearing  a  cord  over  one  of  them,  and  hauled  up 
a  ladder  of  rope  with  cane  cross-pieces  knotted  in,  and  then 
with  our  pulley  we  could  raise  the  needful  planks  for  a  flooring, 
fastened  upon  the  boughs  notched  with  my  ax.  The  next  day 
we  made  a  floor,  built  a  wooden  parapet,  stretched  our  sail- 
cloth roof,  swung  hammocks  from  upper  branches,  made  a  wide 
table  and  chairs  for  our  dining-place  under  the  roots,  and  were 
ready  for  our  Sunday  rest.  Our  animals  were  tethered  near  by, 
our  poultry  never  strayed  far  from  their  feeding-place,  and  even 
the  old  sow,  always  fractious  and  independent,  came  grunting 
back  to  enjoy  the  surplus  milk.  The  night  in  the  tree  was  free 
from  care  and  sweet  with  sea-breezes,  and  our  Sabbath  was  a 
real  rest-day. 

We  now  named  some  of  our  landmarks.  Our  first  harbor 
became  Safety  Bay;  Tent  House  was  our  first  abode;  Cape  Dis- 
appointment the  promontory  whence  we  failed  to  descry  our  lost 
shipmates;  Jackal  River  was  our  stream,  crossed  by  Family 
Bridge;  and  our  eyrie  in  the  tree  was  Falcon's  Nest.  On  Mon- 
day we  all  returned  to  Tent  House  for  supplies.  Ernest  stumbled 
on  some  tubers  that  I  recognized  as  potatoes,  and  we  feasted  on 
wild  pineapple;  while  the  finding  of  a  karata  tree,  with  its 
healing  leaves  for  wounds,  filaments  for  thread,  and  pith  for 
tinder,  and  the  refreshing  taste  of  some  Indian  figs,  completed 
a  trip  of  great  interest  for  us. 

At  Tent  House  we  gathered  ammunition,  butter,  cheese,  and 
other  articles,  caught  the  ducks  and  geese  and  put  them  in  bags, 
and  with  our  varied  load  returned  safely  to  Falcon's  Nest,  lib- 
erating the  water-fowl  by  the  river,  and  soon  enjoying  our  smok- 
ing supper. 


272  THE   SWISS  FAMILY  ROBINSON 

Some  well-shaped  pieces  of  wood  suggested  making  a  sledge, 
which  shortly  afterward  brought  the  big  butter-cask  from  Tent 
House,  with  the  rest  of  our  collected  stores.  A  sailor's  chest  on 
the  shore  provided  clothing  and  underclothing,  and  on  another 
visit  to  the  ship  we  stripped  the  cabins  of  door,  windows,  and 
trimmings,  got  more  powder,  lead,  seeds,  potted  European  fruit- 
tree  plants,  and,  in  fact,  numberless  articles  intended  for  a  colony. 

On  the  way  back  Fritz  harpooned  a  turtle  in  the  neck;  and 
we  utilized  its  flesh  and  fat,  while  Fritz  gave  his  mother  the  big 
shell  to  keep  fresh  water  in.  That  day  Jack  found  the  sow  eat- 
ing some  roots,  which  were  from  the  manioc,  much  used  in  both 
East  and  West  Indies  for  a  bread  called  cassava.  With  this  and 
the  potatoes  we  felt  secure  against  famine.  After  supper  and 
prayers,  we  hauled  our  mattresses  up  to  the  Falcon's  Nest,  and 
slept  soundly. 

Our  next  visit  to  the  ship  developed  a  small,  square -bowed 
pinnace  and  all  its  fittings,  in  separate  pieces,  with  even  two 
small  guns.  But,  leaving  that,  we  loaded  up  with  much  heavy 
stuff — a  copper  boiler,  tobacco-graters,  grindstones,  powder, 
flints,  and  a  wheelbarrow.  As  we  landed  we  came  into  a  flock 
of  penguins  standing  on  the  shore  like  little  men,  and  captured 
two  for  the  poultry  yard.  My  wife  and  the  boys  had  gathered 
many  potatoes  and  manioc  roots.  Setting  the  boys  to  grating 
the  latter  with  the  graters,  I  soon  had  a  moist  powder,  which, 
after  expressing  the  injurious  juice,  I  put  on  iron  plates  over  the 
fire,  covered  with  flour,  and  baked  into  cakes.  We  fed  some 
to  two  chickens  and  to  Knips,  a  young  monkey  that  Fritz  had 
tamed.  After  supper  I  mixed  the  grated  cassava  with  milk, 
and  we  baked  delicious  biscuits,  thereafter  having  our  daily 
bread. 

The  next  job  was  putting  together  the  pinnace,  a  light  boat 
with  two  masts,  and  launching  it.  It  took  two  days  to  load  her 
with  stores,  and  then  we  returned  to  the  shore,  firing  a  salute 
with  our  little  brass  guns  from  the  forward  half-deck. 

Meantime  my  wife,  with  little  Francis,  had  laid  out  and 
planted  a  fine  garden — ^potatoes,  manioc,  peas,  beans,  lentils, 
lettuce,  radishes,  cabbages,  sugar-cane,  pineapples,  and  melons. 

After  a  while  Fritz  and  I  made  an  exploring  expedition,  tak- 
ing Turk,  and  a  bag  of  provisions  on  the  ass.     Our  first  find  was 


JOHANN  RUDOLPH   WYSS  273 

the  candleberry  myrtle,  covered  with  wax  white  berries  yielding 
wax  for  candles.  Then  we  came  upon  a  tall  tree  exuding  a 
thick  gum,  which  when  softened  in  Fritz's  hands  showed  elas- 
ticity, and  we  rejoiced  over  the  caoutchouc,  or  india  rubber, 
which  promised  us  new  shoes  and  other  protective  covering. 
A  low  bush,  its  leaves  covered  with  white  dust,  moved  me  to  split 
the  trunk,  and  within  we  found  the  farinaceous  sago,  of  which 
we  gathered  twenty-five  pounds,  and  then,  satisfied  with  our 
booty,  we  returned. 

The  next  few  days  we  made  candles  from  the  myrtle  berries, 
set  out  many  of  the  European  fruit-tree  plants,  with  two  rows  of 
trees  to  the  bridge,  and  made  a  sand-road  between  them.  At 
Tent  House  we  set  out  trees  requiring  heat — citron,  almond, 
mulberry,  Indian  fig,  etc. — ^with  a  hedge  of  stout  thorn-trees  to 
guard  our  magazine  of  stores. 

Our  clothes  were  now  giving  out,  and  we  made  a  final  visit 
to  the  ship,  getting  chests  of  clothes,  and,  indeed,  whatever  was 
valuable — tables,  chairs,  locks,  bolts.  We  sacked  the  vessel, 
and,  with  a  barrel  of  gunpowder  in  the  hold,  blew  it  up.  The 
wreckage  along  the  shore  next  day  provided  us  with  much  more 
useful  material. 

Soon  after  this  the  whole  family  went  out  for  exploration, 
taking  the  cart  (I  had  put  small  wheels  under  the  sledge),  with 
the  cow  and  the  ass  to  draw  it,  and  a  tent -cloth,  with  the  dogs. 
We  gathered  much  caoutchouc  gum,  sugar-cane,  bamboo,  cocoa- 
nuts,  etc.,  and  camped  for  the  night  on  a  lovely  plain  under  a 
palm-grove.  At  sunset  the  ass  suddenly  began  braying  and 
kicking,  and,  plunging  into  the  bamboos,  disappeared.  We 
feared  some  wild  animal,  but  searched  in  vain  for  our  useful 
beast,  Jack  and  I  vainly  going  out  again  the  next  day.  After 
crossing  a  wood  we  came  upon  a  herd  of  buffaloes.  The  dogs 
flew  at  them  and  seized  the  ears  of  a  young  buffalo,  when  the 
whole  herd  charged  upon  them  and  us.  Jack  and  I  both  fired, 
when  the  herd  stopped,  turned,  and  fled,  crossing  the  river.  I 
finished  with  a  shot  the  wounded  dam,  which  still  held  her 
ground,  hoping  to  keep  and  tame  the  calf.  I  bound  the  legs 
loosely  and,  perforating  the  membrane  of  the  nose  between  the 
nostrils,  passed  a  cord  through,  when  the  poor  creature  sub- 
missively followed  where  I  led.     We  cut  out  the  tongue  of  the 

A.D.,   VOL.    XVII. — 18 


274  THE   SWISS  FAMILY  ROBINSON 

slain  beast  and  some  meat  from  the  loins,  and  took  the  leg- 
skins  for  boots,  when  we  set  out  to  return.  The  dogs  killed  a 
jackal,  but  Jack  saved  a  young  one  from  them,  and  brought  it 
along  as  a  pet. 

Meantime  Fritz  and  Ernest  had  felled  a  seventy-foot  sago 
palm,  and  had  collected  wood,  torches  for  the  night,  etc.,  and 
Fritz  had  captured  a  young  eagle  which,  being  of  a  small  species, 
he  decided  to  train  as  a  falcon  for  hunting  other  birds.  We 
spent  the  next  day  in  splitting  the  great  sago-palm,  grating  and 
sifting  the  pith,  while  the  split  trunk  halves  we  loaded  on  the 
cart  for  water  pipes.  In  the  morning  we  returned,  the  young 
buffalo  harnessed  beside  his  nurse,  the  cow,  drawing  the  cart 
and  its  load. 

Arrived  at  Falcon's  Nest,  we  were  welcomed  by  our  domestic 
animals  and  we  tied  up  our  new  acquisitions — the  buffalo, 
jackal,  and  eagle. 

The  rope-ladder  to  the  Nest  was  a  precarious  dependence. 
But  the  tree  was  hollow  and  swarming  with  bees;  so  I  prepared  a 
hive  outside,  stupefied  the  bees  with  tobacco-smoke,  removed 
to  the  new  hive  the  upper  ranges  of  honeycomb  to  which  the 
bees  were  clinging,  and  then  through  an  opening  took  out  an 
immense  quantity  of  honeycomb,  which  later  we  melted  down 
and  cleared  as  wax,  stowing  the  honey  in  a  cask.  We  then 
made  a  doorway  in  the  tree-trunk,  fitting  it  with  a  cabin  door, 
cleansed  the  great  cavity,  planted  in  the  middle  a  smaller  ten-foot 
tree-trunk,  and  about  it  set  barrel  staves,  making  a  winding 
stairway,  following  it  up  with  successive  ten-foot  sections,  until 
we  reached  our  floor-level,  forty  feet  above  ground.  Openings, 
with  cabin-windows,  gave  light,  and  two  strong  ropes  hung 
from  above  gave  support  to  the  passenger. 

This  occupied  us  about  a  month.  Meantime  our  goats  and 
sheep  began  to  increase,  as  the  hens,  ducks,  and  geese  had  done. 
The  young  buffalo  had  been  broken  to  rein,  and  the  boys  rode 
or  drove  him  readily.  Fritz  had  his  eagle  well  trained  to 
pounce  on  game,  and  even  the  studious  Ernest  had  patiently 
taught  Knips,  the  monkey,  to  carry  a  pannier  on  his  back,  for 
little  burdens.  We  got  candle-making  down  to  facility,  and  by 
covering  molds — of  fiasks,  cups,  sand-filled  stockings,  etc. — 
with  layers  of  the  melted  rubber-gum,  we  manufactured  many 


JOHANN  RUDOLPH  WYSS  275 

waterproof  articles,  including  shoes  and  boots.  We  raised  the 
turtle-shell  on  clay  foundations,  and  let  water  into  it  from  below, 
having  a  perpetual  fountain. 

One  day  our  donkey  returned,  with  an  onagra,  or  wild  ass. 
Fritz  allured  old  Grizzle  with  oats  and  salt;  the  onagra  came 
also,  and  was  captured  with  lasso  and  a  pinching  split-stick  on 
the  nose.  It  took  more  than  a  month  to  tame  the  beautiful 
creature,  although  he  never  would  endure  a  bit,  but  answered  to 
a  halter  and  a  slight  blow  with  a  stick  on  right  or  left  ear.  He 
was  well  named  Lightfoot. 

We  now  built  barns  for  the  animals  during  the  rainy  season, 
and  for  housing  our  supplies.  Francis  had  made  whip-lashes 
from  some  long  leaves,  which  I  found  to  be  the  New  Zealand 
flax.  My  wife  was  delighted.  The  boys  gathered  huge  bundles 
of  it,  which  we  bruised,  soaked,  and  dried  for  future  use,  while 
we  all  worked  to  collect  food,  fodder,  and  fire -wood,  and  to  sow 
some  wheat  and  oats,  as  the  showers  were  beginning. 

Soon  the  tempests  broke  upon  us,  and  torrents  of  rain  fell, 
night  and  day,  till  the  whole  country  was  a  lake,  leaving  our 
little  establishment  an  island  surrounded  by  water  about  two 
hundred  yards  away.  We  had  to  abandon  our  aerial  Nest, 
where  rain  and  howling  winds  freely  played,  and  under  the 
tree-roots  and  in  the  barns  spent  the  long  and  gloomy  weeks. 
It  was  not  cold,  and  we  did  not  need  much  cookery,  but  with 
care  of  the  animals  and  other  occupations  we  spent  the  days, 
while  the  evenings  were  passed  around  a  table,  with  lights,  the 
mother  sewing,  the  bo3^s  drawing  or  writing,  the  reading  of 
Bible  lessons,  and  a  nightly  prayer. 

At  last  the  sky  cleared,  the  sun  came  out,  the  waters  sank, 
and  we  joyfully  went  out  into  the  balmy  air,  the  flowers  and 
brilliant  birds  making  all  things  gay. 

We  repaired  and  cleaned  our  tree  dormitory;  I  made  a  spin- 
ning-wheel for  my  wife,  and  she  began  upon  her  flax.  At  Tent 
House  we  found  some  damage,  but  soon  repaired  it.  Our  chief 
aim  now  was  to  provide  proper  winter  shelter  for  the  next  rainy 
season.  In  the  rocks  behind  Tent  House  we  happily  broke  into 
a  large  cave  or  grotto,  brilliant  with  stalactites  and  crystals  of 
rock-salt,  offering  us  both  shelter  and  that  necessary  mineral 
for  preserving  and  cooking,  and  for  animals,  which  hitherto 


276  THE   SWISS  FAMILY  ROBINSON 

we  had  procured  from  evaporated  sea-water.  The  grotto  was 
spacious,  and  we  laid  it  out  with  our  dwelling  on  one  side  and 
the  kitchen,  workshop,  and  stables  on  the  other,  fitting  the 
rooms  with  lumber  from  the  ship,  setting  windows  in  the  rock 
face,  making  fireplace,  chimney,  etc.  This,  with  the  removal 
of  our  animals  and  stores  from  Falcon's  Nest,  consumed  most  of 
the  summer. 

An  immense  shoal  of  herrings  in  the  bay  gave  us  several 
barrels  of  pickled  and  smoked  fish,  a  big  sturgeon  furnished  a 
mass  of  spawn  from  which  I  made  caviar,  and  hardly  a  day 
passed  that  did  not  bring  to  us  some  new  gift  of  Nature's  wealth. 

My  wife's  cornfield  and  garden  at  the  Nest  flourished  bravely, 
and  the  discovery  of  a  great  field  of  cotton-plants,  covered  with 
their  snowy  down,  gave  her  a  new  outlook  for  her  spinning.  We 
built  a  farmhouse  on  high  groimd,  utilizing  convenient  trees  for 
uprights;  and  in  another  place  we  put  up  a  small  summer-house 
with  a  lovely  view. 

I  had  long  wished  for  a  bark  canoe;  and  finding  a  suitable 
tree — a  sort  of  oak,  with  close  bark — ^I  sawed  two  circles  about 
it,  eighteen  feet  apart;  then,  opening  a  slit  the  whole  length,  with 
wedges  and  hammers  I  succeeded  in  prying  off  the  whole  great 
band  of  bark.  Cutting  out  a  triangular  piece  at  each  end,  I 
fastened  the  ends  together  and  had  a  pointed  boat.  The  sides, 
drawn  together  with  ropes  to  proper  width,  dried  in  the  sun, 
and  with  curved  wood  for  ribs,  and  resinous  glue  for  joints,  thin 
boards  for  lining,  a  bamboo  mast,  a  rudder,  and  brass  rowlocks, 
we  had  a  fine,  strong  canoe. 

Our  cow  had  given  us  a  male  calf,  which,  as  the  other  boys 
had  each  his  riding  animal,  I  gave  to  Francis,  our  youngest,  and 
trained  him  so  that  he  was  tractable  and  useful.  Francis  named 
him  Valiant. 

The  next  rainy  season  we  spent  in  our  comfortable  grotto, 
working  by  day  in  the  shop,  and  at  night  enjoying  the  living- 
room,  brilliantly  illuminated  with  candles  and  crystals.  We 
had  a  little  chapel,  where  we  held  service  every  Sunday.  Jack 
and  Francis  made  sweet  music  on  reed  flageolets,  and  their 
mother  sang  with  them.  Thus  we  had  made  considerable 
progress  toward  civilization.  Active,  industrious,  and  con- 
tented, even  were  we  fated  to  spend  our  lives  here,  we  might  be 


JOHANN  RUDOLPH   WYSS  277 

happy,  amid  the  safety  and  abundance  vouchsafed  us  by  our 
Divine  Protector.     [Here  ends  the  first  part  of  the  journal.] 

Postscript  by  the  Editor, — Three  or  four  years  after  the 
Robinson  family  had  been  wrecked,  the  English  transport  Ad- 
venturer was  driven  out  of  her  course  by  storm,  and,  lying-to  off 
this  rocky  island.  Captain  Johnson  sent  Lieutenant  Bell  ashore 
in  a  boat  to  see  whether  it  was  safe  to  remain  for  repairs.  The 
father  of  the  family  met  them,  speaking  in  German  and  then  in 
English,  the  family  being  at  Falcon's  Nest.  The  good  Swiss 
entertained  them  at  Tent  House,  and  gave  the  foregoing  part  of 
his  journal  for  Captain  Johnson's  perusal,  and  the  boat  left, 
expecting  to  return  the  next  day.  But  another  fearful  storm 
arose,  the  Adventurer  was  driven  far  out  to  sea,  and  Captain 
Johnson  reluctantly  gave  up  all  hope  of  rescuing  the  family,  re- 
turning to  England,  and  sending  the  journal  to  me  in  Switzer- 
land. 


[Here  follows  the  second  part  of  the  journal^ 

On  the  day  when  Lieutenant  Bell  came  ashore  I  had  been 
out  early,  and,  discovering  the  ship,  had  gone  alone  to  Tent 
House,  not  wishing  to  disturb  the  family  with  hopes  that  might 
fail.  It  was  past  noon  when  Lieutenant  Bell  left,  taking  my 
journal  with  him,  and  I  hastened  back  to  Falcon's  Nest — ^but 
alas!  to  find  that  my  wife,  turned  giddy  on  the  winding  staircase, 
had  fallen  and  injured  her  right  leg  and  left  foot.  I  found  the 
foot  violently  sprained,  and  her  leg  fractured  above  the  ankle. 
I  set  the  leg,  with  splints,  and  tightly  bound  up  the  ankle,  and 
then  with  Fritz  returned  to  the  Tent  House  for  the  medicine- 
chest,  meantime  telling  him  about  the  ship.  We  got  the  chest 
and  some  tamarinds  for  cooling  drinks,  and  returned  to  the 
Nest,  a  storm  having  already  begun. 

Relieving  the  mother's  pains  with  lotions  and  refreshing  her 
with  the  acid  drink,  we  listened  to  the  violent  tempest.  I  told 
the  boys,  but  not  the  mother,  about  the  ship,  and  all  were 
eager;  for,  happy  as  we  were,  I  looked  forward  to  the  manhood 
and  age  of  the  young  fellows,  and  felt  that  if  we  could  return  to 
Europe  it  was  our  duty  to  do  so.     Fritz  and  Jack  had  gone  out 


278  THE   SWISS  FAMILY  ROBINSON 

in  the  night  to  see  whether  they  could  help  the  strangers,  but, 
after  dangerous  adventures,  found  no  sign  of  them,  and  the 
morning  view  of  the  sea  showed  no  trace  of  the  vessel,  while  the 
land  was  a  lake  of  desolation.  The  storm  continued  several 
days,  and  when  at  last  the  sun  came  out  we  found  the  garden  at 
Tent  House  completely  washed  away,  and  the  young  fruit  trees 
bent  to  the  ground. 

Francis  suggested  building  a  colonnade  or  long  porch  before 
our  grotto-house,  and  what  with  repairing  the  garden,  building 
a  rampart  to  shield  it  from  flooding,  and  erecting  our  colonnade, 
Fritz,  Jack,  and  Francis  were  with  me  very  busy  for  days,  while 
Ernest  remained  with  his  mother.  A  chest  cast  ashore  by  the 
storm  was  filled  with  colored  beads,  looking-glasses,  toys, 
hatchets,  and  many  trifles  likely  to  please  savages,  and  with  nails, 
hooks,  staples,  etc.,  which  I  found  useful.  We  took  to  the 
mother  scissors,  needles,  pins,  and  a  thimble.  Fritz  and  Jack 
insisted  on  a  little  pavilion  with  a  fountain  at  each  end  of  the 
colonnade,  and  they  were  duly  erected.  Ernest  had  discovered 
another  cave  near  the  garden,  which  was  opened  and  fitted  for 
the  mother  to  rest  in. 

The  weeks  had  cured  my  wife's  disabilities,  and  as  the  boys 
had  made  a  basket-litter  for  her,  we  brought  her — the  cow  and 
the  young  bull  bearing  the  litter-poles — to  Tent  House,  and  all 
vastly  enjoyed  her  surprise  and  pleasure  at  the  improvements. 
We  now  decided  to  make  the  grotto  at  Tent  House  our  home, 
but  to  leave  Falcon's  Nest  as  it  was,  for  summer  resort.  The 
rainy  season  was  passed  comfortably  and  industriously. 

On  one  of  our  spring  expeditions,  Fritz,  Ernest,  Jack,  and 
I  were  seeking  some  outlet  among  the  rocks  behind  our  grotto, 
having  with  difficulty  climbed  around  by  the  sea  to  the  rear,  and 
came  upon  two  black  bears,  which  we  killed  and  skinned.  We 
had  to  spend  the  night  there,  but  the  morning  brought  us  to  a 
pass  leading  back  to  our  side  of  the  island.  We  followed  it  down 
to  the  sea,  for  I  had  moored  our  canoe  in  the  bay  and  thought 
now  to  get  it  around  to  Tent  House  neighborhood.  The  mark 
of  the  cord  was  on  the  tree,  but  no  canoe ! 

Could  it  have  been  savages?  I  thought.  On  the  sands  were 
prints  of  naked  feet!  We  were  still  three  leagues  from  Tent 
House,  and  anxiously  hastened  homeward,  I  forbidding  the 


JOHANN  RUDOLPH  WYSS  279 

boys  to  mention  the  loss  to  their  mother.  Arriving  there,  we 
found  no  mother,  no  little  Francis!  The  boys  flew  about  in  all 
directions,  but  found  no  sign.  Jack  ran  back  from  the  shore, 
where  he  had  seen  the  bare  footprints  again,  and  the  marks  of 
Francis's  little  boots.  It  was  too  clear;  the  savages  had  carried 
them  off. 

This  aroused  me  from  my  stupor.  "  Come,  my  children," 
I  said,  "let  us  fly  to  save  them.  God  will  restore  them.  Come, 
come!'' 

The  pinnace  was  at  its  mooring.  But,  before  trying  that,  I 
let  Fritz  and  Ernest  go  to  search  the  island,  taking  some  food,  a 
loaded  musket  each,  and  Turk — ^Flora  was  gone.  Meantime 
I  put  into  the  pinnace  the  chest  of  trinkets,  food,  water,  arms, 
and  ammunition.  After  twenty  hours  of  terror,  I  heard  the  re- 
port of  one  musket — the  signal  that  the  boys  were  returning 
alone ! 

Once  embarked,  we  soon  gained  the  open  sea.  By  daybreak 
we  saw  our  island  a  speck,  behind  us,  and  soon  Ernest  spied 
land  ahead.  As  we  approached  land  a  fog  came,  and  a  heavy 
rain.  We  anchored  for  the  night,  and  in  the  morning,  the  sea 
being  calm,  we  moored  in  a  creek.  Fritz  and  Jack,  with  Turk, 
set  out  for  the  interior,  while  Ernest  and  I  remained  to  watch  the 
pinnace.  We  hid  it  under  green  branches,  and  then  wandered 
along  the  shore. 

After  a  while  we  saw  a  canoe  filled  with  dark  figures  swiftly 
rowed  past  our  creek.  We  loudly  hailed  it,  but  the  savages 
shouted  back  and  swept  on.  Ernest  looked  with  his  telescope, 
but  said  he  saw  nothing  of  our  lost  ones;  still,  he  proposed  un- 
covering the  pinnace  and  pursuing  the  canoe.  While  we  were 
getting  it  out,  Fritz  appeared,  alone,  sobbing  that  he  had  lost 
Jack.  Ernest  said  nothing,  for  he  had  recognized  his  brother 
in  the  canoe. 

The  boys  had  met  the  savages,  Fritz  having  stained  himself 
with  a  dark  fruit-juice.  The  chief  of  the  natives  had  on  his 
head  a  colored  handkerchief  like  one  worn  by  the  boy's  mother. 
Fritz  pointed  to  it,  and  the  chief  seemed  to  think  he  wanted  it, 
and  repelled  him,  when  four  of  the  others  seized  Jack,  whose 
white  skin  pleased  them,  stripped  both  the  boys,  and  appropri- 
ated their  clothes.    Fritz  ran  to  fetch  his  bag  of  trinkets,  when 


28o  THE   SWISS  FAMILY  ROBINSON 

the  islanders  set  off  with  Jack.  Fritz  threw  himself  upon  them, 
but  his  gun  exploded  and  wounded  Jack  in  the  shoulder,  and 
the  savages,  throwing  Fritz  off,  departed  with  Jack.  Fritz  was 
sure  that  the  handkerchief  was  his  mother's,  and  that  the  same 
party  had  her  and  Francis. 

We  hurried  into  the  pinnace  and  pursued  the  savages,  going 
around  a  long  promontory  and  back  toward  land,  at  last  landing 
on  a  creek,  the  shore  of  which  showed  where  the  islanders  had 
been,  and  had  eaten  and  departed.  We  hid  the  pinnace  and, 
passing  up  through  a  wood  and  across  a  sandy  plain,  were  as- 
tonished to  see  a  man  in  a  long  black  robe  advancing  to  meet  us. 
He  was  a  missionary,  addressed  us  in  English,  and  said  that  he 
was  seeking  us. 

He  brought  us  good  news,  indeed.  Jack's  wound  was  pain- 
ful but  not  dangerous;  my  wife  was  well,  and  in  the  company 
of  another  white  woman.  Little  Francis  was  a  favorite  with  the 
chief,  Baraourou,  whom  the  islanders  call  their  king,  and  de- 
lighted the  savages  with  his  flageolet.  The  good  man  had  no 
doubt  that,  having  much  influence  with  the  chief,  he  could  per- 
suade them  to  release  their  captives,  who  had  been  taken  rather 
from  curiosity  than  for  any  evil. 

He  led  us  back  to  the  pinnace,  where  my  two  sons  were  dis- 
tributing trinkets  to  a  throng  of  savages.  We  delayed  at  the  re- 
quest of  Parabery,  a  kind  of  sub-chief,  until  the  King  should 
come,  Mr.  Willis,  the  missionary,  translating  and  seconding  the 
request.  When  he  arrived,  in  our  canoe,  he  was  borne  to  us  on 
the  shoulders  of  two  men,  and  our  little  Francis  in  similar  fash- 
ion, as  he  was  the  King's  adopted  son. 

Mr.  Willis  talked  long  with  the  King,  who  reluctantly  yielded 
the  boy  to  his  father,  and  we  all  proceeded  in  the  pinnace  to  the 
settlement.  I  had  given  the  King  many  presents,  besides  the 
canoe,  and  he  was  well  satisfied.  He  received  us  hospitably  in 
his  palace — a  large  hut  of  bamboos  and  palm-leaves — ^while  Mr. 
Willis  took  Francis  and  went  to  prepare  my  wife  for  our  meet- 
ing. After  a  further  giving  of  presents,  I  received  from  the  King 
a  friendly  salute,  he  rubbing  his  nose  against  mine,  and  we 
departed  to  our  dear  ones. 

My  wife  lay  on  a  rough  couch,  in  a  large,  comfortable  cave, 
with  a  door  of  matting,  and  seated  near  her  was  a  pleasant -look- 


JOHANN  RUDOLPH  WYSS  281 

ing  lady,  Madame  Hcrtel.  The  lady's  eldest  daughter,  Sophia, 
was  nursing  Jack,  while  Matilda,  about  eleven  years  old,  was 
playing  with  Francis.  I  cannot  describe  our  meeting,  so  full  of 
joy  and  gratitude  to  our  Heavenly  Father.  Madame  Hcrtel,  I 
learned,  had  been  living  with  the  friendly  islanders  for  five 
years,  since  being  wrecked  on  the  shore,  she  and  her  little  girls  the 
only  ones  saved.  She  had  agreed  with  my  wife  to  accompany 
us  back  to  our  Happy  Island,  and  Mr.  Willis  agreed  also  to  visit 
us  often,  and  by  and  by  to  live  with  us.  Parabery  and  his  wife 
Canda  were  much  attached  to  Madame  Hcrtel,  and  they  too 
received  permission  from  the  King  to  return  with  us. 

We  waited  a  few  days  for  Jack's  wound  to  improve,  and  then 
sailed  in  our  pinnace,  with  our  restored  and  augmented  party, 
to  our  dear  home. 

The  following  year  we  had  a  visit  from  a  Russian  vessel,  in 
which  was  the  celebrated  astronomer  Horner  of  Zurich.  Hav- 
ing read  the  first  part  of  our  journal,  published  by  Captain  John- 
son, he  had  come  purposely  to  see  us.  They  offered  to  take  us 
back  to  Europe,  but  we  did  not  care  to  go,  sending  Ernest,  how- 
ever, to  study  astronomy  with  Mr.  Horner.  Since  then  we  have 
lived  most  happily,  only  missing  our  dear  Ernest,  who  means  to 
return  to  us. 

Two  Years  Later. — Our  son  returned  in  a  vessel  commanded 
by  Captain  Johnson,  who  was  determined  to  see  us  again.  He 
has  brought  with  him  Henrietta  Bodner,  a  niece  of  his  mother, 
now  become  his  wife,  a  lovely  Swiss  girl.  Jack  and  Francis, 
their  mother  hopes,  will  grow  up  to  marry  Sophia  and  Matilda 
Hertel;  and  although  Emily  Hertel  is  a  few  years  older  than 
Fritz  we  hope  that  they  too  will  be  married,  and  that  Mr.  Willis 
may  live  to  solemnize  the  three  weddings. 

I  give  this  conclusion  of  my  journal  to  Captain  Johnson,  to 
take  to  Europe.  If  any  of  my  readers  be  anxious  to  know  more 
of  us,  let  them  set  out  for  the  Happy  Island,  where  they  will  find 
a  warm  welcome. 


CHARLOTTE   MARY   YONGE 

(England,  1 823-1 901) 
THE  HEIR   OF  REDCLYFFE   (1853) 

In  the  spring  of  1850  Charlotte  Mary  Yonge  visited  her  friend  Miss  Dyson, 
at  DogmeniSeld,  and  while  there  she  saw  the  manuscript  of  a  story  by  her  hostess. 
Miss  Dyson  was  dissatisfied  with  her  work,  but  her  guest  thought  something 
could  be  made  of  the  motif,  and  at  once  set  about  it,  the  result  of  her  labors 
appearing  in  due  time  as  The  Heir  of  Redclyffe.  This  work  went  on  through  the 
autumn  of  1850  and  the  spring  following,  and  in  August,  185 1,  the  book  was 
completed.  It  was  declined  by  the  publisher  Murray,  on  the  ground  that  he 
did  not  publish  fiction,  and  it  was  offered  next  to  the  Messrs.  Parker.  These 
publishers  delayed  their  decision  so  long  that  the  final  agreement  to  publish  in 
October  was  not  signed  until  May,  1852.  The  Heir  of  Redclyffe  was  issued  in 
the  first  days  of  1853  in  two  volumes,  and  became  immediately  popular,  reaching 
a  fifth  edition  in  1854  and  a  seventeenth  in  1868.  The  story  embodied  the 
spirit  of  the  Oxford  Movement  in  its  most  attractive  form,  Guy,  its  hero,  being 
taken  for  a  model  by  such  earnest  Pre-Raphaelites  as  William  Morris  and 
Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti.  In  a  letter  dated  in  1896  Miss  Yonge  remarks  that 
"Guizot's  public  recommendation  of  The  Heir  of  Redclyffe  led  to  the  only 
thoroughly  spiteful  review  that  ever  befell  me,  in  Household  Words,  written,  I 
imagine,  by  some  blindly  jealous  admirer  of  Dickens."  A  large  part  of  the 
proceeds  from  The  Heir  of  Redclyffe  was  given  by  the  author  in  June,  1854,  to 
Bishop  Selwyn,  of  New  Zealand,  who  applied  it,  at  her  desire,  toward  building 
the  noted  missionary  ship,  the  Southern  Cross. 

R.  EDMONSTONE,  the  proprietor  of  Hollywell 
House,  was  a  middle-aged  Englishman  of  good 
family,  naturally  amiable,  but  inclined  to  depend 
on  the  decision  of  others  in  most  matters.  His 
family  consisted  of  his  wife,  the  sister  of  Arch- 
deacon Morville,  who  was  no  longer  living,  his 
son  Charles,  a  cripple  of  nineteen,  and  three 
daughters— Laura,  Amabel,  and  Charlotte,  the 
youngest,  a  child  of  eleven.  A  frequent  visitor  to 
Hollywell  was  Captain  Philip  Morville,  Mrs.  Edmonstone's 
nephew,  a  tall,  handsome  fellow  of  twenty-three,  possessed  of 
excellent  principles,  but  sententious,  and  disposed  to  domineer 
over  those  with  whom  he  had  much  to  do.     His  air  of  superior 

282 


CHARLOTTE   MARY  YONGE  283 

virtue  often  alienated  those  who  otherwise  would  have  greatly 
admired  him.  The  head  of  another  branch  of  the  Morville 
connection  had  been  old  Sir  Guy  Morville,  of  Redclyffe,  who 
had  just  died,  leaving  as  sole  heir  his  grandson  Guy,  the  ward  of 
Mr.  Edmonstone.  The  two  families  of  Morville  had  not  been  on 
good  terms  in  earlier  years,  but  Philip  stood  now  next  after  his 
distant  cousin  Guy  in  the  succession  to  Redclyffe.  Guy's  father 
had  made  a  runaway  match  with  the  sixteen-year-old  sister  of 
a  violinist  named  Dixon,  greatly  to  his  father's  indignation. 
The  son,  in  hopes  of  a  reconciliation,  brought  his  wife  to  Red- 
clyffe, but  his  father  vehemently  declined  to  see  him,  and  as  the 
young  man  rode  away  he  was  killed  by  being  thrown  against  a 
tree  in  the  park.  The  next  day  his  wife  died  in  giving  birth  to 
a  son.  Old  Sir  Guy,  bitterly  regretting  his  burst  of  passion,  be- 
came a  changed  man.  He  grew  very  fond  of  his  grandson,  but 
brought  him  up  in  seclusion  at  Redclyffe.  The  lad  was  now 
nearly  eighteen,  and  at  his  grandfather's  death  he  became  for 
a  time  a  member  of  his  guardian's  household. 

Charles  Edmonstone  had  been  for  ten  years  a  sufferer  from 
disease  of  the  hip-joint  and  his  invalidism  had  made  him  undis- 
puted sovereign  of  the  whole  family.  He  was  disposed  to  tease 
his  sisters  and  to  find  Philip's  superior  virtues  and  countless 
perfections  very  wearisome.  For  a  while  he  tried  to  stir  up  the 
newly  arrived  Guy,  but  he  soon  left  off  this  practise  as  he  began 
to  comprehend  the  other's  character.  Guy  quickly  gained  the 
affections  of  the  Edmonstones,  as  Philip  discerned  on  the  occa- 
sion of  his  first  call  at  Hollywell  after  Guy's  advent,  and,  in  re- 
sponse to  his  cousins'  encomium,  found  much  to  criticize  in  the 
impersonal,  judicial  manner  that  Charles  had  always  found 
peculiarly  exasperating.  To  Laura's  remark:  *' There  is  much 
to  like  in  him,"  Philip  responded: 

"  There  is,  but  is  it  the  highest  praise  to  say  there  is  much  to 
like  ?  There  is  an  impatience  of  advice,  a  vehemence  of  manner, 
that  I  can  hardly  deem  satisfactory.  From  all  I  have  seen  I 
should  not  venture  as  yet  to  place  much  dependence  on  his 
steadiness  of  character  or  command  of  temper." 

Philip  frequently  undertook  to  point  out  to  Guy  the  other's 
shortcomings  as  he  had  previously  done  those  of  his  cousins,  dis- 
cipline which  Guy  bore  commendably  well,  only  very  rarely 


284  THE   HEIR   OF  REDCLYFFE 

giving  way  to  the  Morville  temper  which  he  inherited.  He 
knew  that  PhiHp's  intentions  were  excellent,  and  his  admiration 
for  Philip's  attainments  was  so  sincere  that  he  did  not  detect  the 
self-complacency  of  his  mentor.  Conscious  of  his  deficiencies 
as  a  student,  Guy  devoted  himself  to  preparation  for  Oxford 
with  the  greatest  assiduity;  but  even  in  this  matter  Philip  found 
room  for  carping,  and  the  small  Charlotte  shrewdly  remarked  to 
Philip  that  whenever  Guy  was  praised  he  (Philip)  always  an- 
swered as  if  cause  for  praise  could  not  last.  Occasional  mis- 
understandings might  easily  have  widened  into  a  breach  between 
the  two  but  for  Philip's  coolness  at  all  times,  and  Guy's  readi- 
ness to  apologize.  When  Guy  finally  departed  for  Oxford  it 
was  with  the  regrets  of  all  the  Edmonstones,  but  even  then 
Philip  could  not  forbear  the  utterance  of  misgivings : 

"He  goes  with  excellent  intentions,"  said  Philip. 

"I  do  hope  he  will  do  well,"  said  Mrs.  Edmonstone. 

"I  wish  he  may,"  said  Philip.  "The  agreeableness  of  his 
nature  makes  one  more  anxious.  It  is  very  dangerous.  His 
name,  his  wealth,  his  sociable,  gay  disposition,  that  very  attrac- 
tive manner,  all  are  so  many  perils,  and  he  has  not  that  natural 
pleasure  in  study  that  would  be  of  itself  a  preservative  from 
temptation.  I  only  fear  his  temper  and  his  want  of  steadiness. 
Poor  boy,  I  hope  he  may  do  well!" 

In  June  Guy  returned  to  spend  the  holidays  at  his  guardian's, 
and  Philip,  who  spent  much  time  at  Hollywell,  conceived  the 
idea  that  Laura  was  in  danger  of  falling  in  love  with  Guy.  To 
lose  Laura  would  darken  his  whole  existence.  He  told  himself 
that  he  could  have  resigned  her  in  silence  if  her  happiness  were 
secure,  but  he  could  not  endure  the  thought  that  Guy  should 
win  her,  and  if  she  were  entangled  only  by  manner  she  should 
be  warned  in  time.  He  had  been  her  guide  from  childhood,  and 
he  would  not  fail  her  now.  In  accordance  with  this  determina- 
tion, he  asked  her  whether  she  had  reflected  to  what  result  all 
"this  music,  this  versifying,  this  admitting  a  stranger  so  unre- 
servedly into  her  pursuits,"  might  tend.  He  was  deeply  in 
earnest,  and  she  understood  what  the  faltering  of  his  voice  im- 
plied. Her  face  showed  clearly  her  love  for  him,  and,  as  he  saw 
this,  all  misgivings  disappeared,  and  almost  before  he  was  aware 
he  had  made  direct  avowal  of  his  love.    He  was,  however,  de- 


CHARLOTTE   MARY  YONGE  285 

sirous  of  keeping  this  avowal  a  secret  for  the  time,  to  which 
Laura  consented.  It  was  impossible  for  him  as  yet  to  marry, 
and  he  preferred  to  wait,  as  he  could  not  bear  to  be  rejected  by 
her  parents  and  knew  that  his  small  income  would  be  their  sole 
ground  of  objection.  He  believed  sincerely  that  a  long,  linger- 
ing attachment  to  himself  would  be  more  for  her  good  than  a 
marriage  with  one  who  would  have  been  a  high  prize  for  worldly 
aims,  and  was  satisfied  that  by  winning  her  heart  he  had  taken 
the  only  means  of  securing  her  from  becoming  attached  to  Guy, 
while  secrecy  was  the  only  way  of  preserving  his  intercourse  with 
her,  and  exerting  his  influence  over  the  family. 

Philip's  feeling  for  Laura  was  not  unsuspected  by  Charles 
and  his  mother;  but  that  Laura  returned  his  affection  they  did 
not  believe,  and  both  felt  that  his  tranquil  disposition  might  be 
trusted  not  to  carry  matters  further. 

Laura  and  her  father  departed  soon  after  this  on  a  visit  to 
some  cousins  in  Ireland,  and  at  this  juncture  a  concert  at  the 
neighboring  town  of  Broadstone  brought  Guy's  maternal  uncle, 
the  violinist  Dixon,  into  the  vicinity;  and  as  Philip  had  always 
considered  this  connection  disgraceful  he  strongly  advised  Guy, 
who  never  had  seen  his  uncle,  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  him. 
Guy,  impatient  of  interference  in  a  matter  so  personal,  rejected 
this  advice  with  indignation  and  strode  off  to  meet  his  uncle. 
While  Dixon  was  improvident  and  somewhat  addicted  to  gam- 
ing,  he  was  drawn  to  his  nephew  by  sincere  affection,  and  when 
more  was  said  to  Guy  concerning  him,  the  young  baronet 
replied : 

"If  he  is  not  a  gentleman,  and  is  looked  down  on  by  the 
world,  it  is  not  for  his  sister's  son  to  make  him  feel  it." 

Two  years  went  by,  and  Guy,  now  twenty,  was  still  passing 
his  vacations  at  HollyweU.  Lady  Eveleen  Kilcoran,  Mrs.  Ed- 
monstone's  niece,  was  visiting  there  likewise,  and  while  her  aunt 
was  thinking  a  match  between  her  and  Guy  would  be  very  de- 
sirable, it  suddenly  occurred  to  her  that  it  was  her  own  daugh- 
ter Amy  who  was  constantly  with  Guy,  not  Eveleen.  A  word 
of  caution  to  Amy  was  followed  by  the  determination  on  Amy's 
part  to  withdraw  from  Guy's  company  as  much  as  possible,  her 
severe  judgment  of  herself  leading  her  to  fear  lest  she  should  seem 
to  have  been  seeking  him  in  the  past.    The  change  in  his  cousin's 


286  THE   HEIR   OF  REDCLYFFE 

manner  suddenly  brought  Guy  to  a  realization  of  his  own  feel- 
ings and  made  him  perceive  that  it  was  Amy  who  made  the  life 
at  Hollywell  so  precious  to  him.  His  natural  distrust  of  himself 
rendered  him  fearful  that  Amy  and  her  parents  would  disap- 
prove of  the  connection,  but  nevertheless  with  many  misgivings 
he  confessed  his  love,  and  was  convinced  that  it  was  returned. 
Contrary  to  his  fears,  the  Edmonstones,  one  and  all,  with  the 
exception  of  Laura,  were  delighted;  and  Laura's  objections, 
being  colored  by  Philip's  distrust  of  Guy,  were  kept  to  herself. 

Before  the  news  reached  Philip,  then  absent  from  Hollywell, 
he  had  heard  from  his  sister,  Mrs.  Henley,  who  lived  at  St. 
Mildred's,  that  she  had  seen  a  draft  for  thirty  pounds  indorsed 
by  Sir  Guy  (who  had  been  reading  with  a  tutor  there)  and  made 
payable  to  a  sporting  man  named  White.  Meeting  his  uncle 
soon  afterward,  he  was  shown  a  letter  from  Guy  to  his  guardian, 
asking  for  one  thousand  pounds,  but  adding  that  he  was  not  at 
liberty  to  explain  what  it  was  for.  Mr.  Edmonstone  was  puz- 
zled, but  suspected  no  evil  till  Philip  suggested  that  Guy  had 
been  gambling.  It  then  transpired  that  Amy  and  Guy  were 
engaged,  at  which  Philip  said  he  should  now  rejoice  in  her  es- 
cape. Philip  insisted  that  Guy  must  have  been  gaming  for 
some  time,  and  Mr.  Edmonstone  was  easily  led  to  believe  in  his 
ward's  bad  habits.  Acting  under  the  advice  of  Philip,  Mr.  Ed- 
monstone wrote  to  Guy  in  severe  terms,  insisting  on  a  full  state- 
ment of  his  proceedings  and  an  explanation  of  his  request  for  so 
large  a  sum.  In  reply,  Guy  wrote  that  he  had  nothing  to  con- 
fess and  was  bound  in  honor  not  to  mention  the  purpose  for  which 
the  thousand  pounds  were  needed.  A  highly  colored  version  of 
Guy's  hasty  words  against  Philip  and  his  guardian  having  by 
this  time  reached  Mr.  Edmonstone  via  Mrs.  Henley  and  Philip, 
that  gentleman  wrote  to  forbid  Guy  his  home. 

The  facts,  which  Guy  did  not  impart  to  his  guardian,  were 
these:  Mr.  Dixon,  Guy's  uncle,  had  fallen  into  straits  through 
gambling,  and  the  thirty  pounds  had  been  applied  to  the  pay- 
ment of  Dixon's  gambling-debt,  while  the  larger  sum  was  to 
further  a  charitable  and  educational  enterprise  planned  by  some 
friends  at  St.  Mildred's,  the  interest  of  the  money  to  be  devoted 
to  the  support  and  education  of  his  little  cousin  Marianne  Dixon, 
tiU  at  twenty-five  his  entire  property  should  be  in  his  own  hands. 


CHARLOTTE   MARY  YONGE  287 

Prior  to  the  sending  of  the  second  letter  to  Guy,  Philip  came 
to  Hollywell,  where  Charles  met  him  with  the  words: 

''Philip,  let  m.e  know  the  true  grounds  of  your  persecution." 

When  Philip  had  made  explanation,  Charles  continued: 

"So  the  fact  is  that  Guy  has  asked  for  his  own  money,  and 
when  in  lieu  of  it  he  received  a  letter  full  of  unjust  charges  he 
declared  that  Philip  was  a  meddling  coxcomb.  I  advise  you 
not  to  justify  his  opinion." 

In  Mr.  Edmonstone's  absence,  Charles  threatened  to  write 
to  Guy  that  there  was  one  person  still  in  his  senses. 

"You  will  do  as  you  please,"  said  Philip. 

"Thank  you  for  the  permission." 

"It  is  not  to  me  that  your  submission  is  due,"  said  Philip. 

"  Philip,  I  submit  to  my  father  readily,  but  I  do  not  submit 
to  Captain  Morville's  instrument,"  Charles  retorted. 

Charles  wrote  to  Guy,  who  replied  expressing  gratitude  for 
his  cousin's  sympathy,  and  also  urged  his  father  to  see  Guy  at 
St.  Mildred's;  but  Philip  advised  against  this.  A  month  later 
Philip  called  upon  Guy  at  Oxford  and  requested  explanations, 
which  Guy  politely  declined  to  give.  He  thereupon  made  in- 
quiries of  various  persons  concerning  Guy's  habits  and  standing 
at  Oxford,  but  failed  to  discover  anything  to  his  young  cousin's 
discredit.  He  was  conscious  that  he  ought  to  have  returned  to 
tell  Guy  that  he  had  found  nothing  amiss,  but  persuaded  himself 
that  he  should  thus  miss  his  train,  and  so  laid  the  foundation 
for  a  lifetime  of  regret.  He  was  soon  to  sail  with  his  regiment 
for  the  Mediterranean,  but  he  first  made  a  visit  to  Hollywell, 
where  he  found  Charles  ill  and  querulous,  and  was  compelled 
to  admit  that  he  had  learned  nothing  against  Guy  in  his  Oxford 
researches,  and  also  that  he  had  not  visited  Guy  again. 

"Not  see  him?  not  tell  him  he  was  so  far  justified?" 

"It  would  have  been  useless;  for  while  these  mysteries  con- 
tinue my  opinion  is  unchanged,  and  there  was  no  benefit  in  re- 
newing vain  disputes." 

"Say  no  more!"  exclaimed  Charles.  "You  have  said  all  I 
expected,  and  more  too.  I  gave  you  credit  for  domineering  and 
prejudice,  now  I  see  it  is  malignity." 

Guy  had  looked  for  Philip's  return,  but  in  vain,  and  as  he  did 
not  know  of  the  illness  of  Charles  he  was  unhappy  because  no 


288  THE   HEIR   OF  REDCLYFFE 

further  word  came  from  Hollywell.  His  Christmas  holidays 
were  spent  at  Rcdclyffe,  where  he  endeared  himself  to  the  fisher 
folk  of  the  village  by  his  bravery  in  heading  a  party  that  rescued 
a  shipwrecked  crew  in  a  storm.  The  news  of  this  exploit  brought 
him  a  brief  and  almost  illegible  letter  of  praise  from  Charles, 
but  his  depression  continued,  a  circumstance  that  greatly  dis- 
tressed the  family  lawyer,  Markham. 

In  March  Charles  persuaded  his  father  to  meet  Guy  and 
Markham  in  order  to  transact  the  business  relating  to  Guy's 
coming  to  age.  Guy  dreaded  the  meeting  and  the  renewed  re- 
fusal to  make  explanations,  but  he  found  his  guardian  in  the 
company  of  his  uncle  as  well  as  Markham,  and  learned  that 
through  the  instrumentality  of  his  uncle  and  the  lawyer  his  name 
had  been  already  cleared  and  misunderstanding  and  vexation 
were  at  an  end.  Great  was  the  joy  of  the  Edmonstones  at  Guy's 
vindication.  He  returned  with  his  guardian  to  Hollywell,  and  it 
was  settled  that  his  marriage  to  Amy  should  not  be  long  delayed. 
Philip,  who  was  at  Cork  awaiting  orders  for  the  Mediterranean, 
wrote  a  letter  to  his  uncle,  regretting  the  renewal  of  the  engage- 
ment, entreating  him  to  pause  before  giving  it  sanction,  and 
hinting  at  unhappiness  for  Amy  in  wedding  one  so  easily  led 
into  temptation  and  with  temper  so  undisciplined.  Kilcoran 
was  not  far  from  Cork,  and  Philip,  having  engaged  to  spend 
a  day  or  two  with  the  Kilcorans,  heard  so  much  while  there  of 
the  merits  of  Sir  Guy  that  he  decided  not  to  attend  the  wed- 
ding, but  wrote  to  his  uncle  a  calm  and  lofty  letter,  free  from 
all  token  of  offense,  expressing  every  wish  for  the  happiness  of 
Guy  and  Amabel,  thanking  him  for  the  invitation,  which  he 
thought  it  best  to  decline,  much  as  he  regretted  losing  the  op- 
portunity of  seeing  Hollywell  again.  His  regiment  would  sail 
for  Corfu  either  in  May  or  June,  but  he  intended,  himself,  to 
travel  on  foot  through  Germany  and  Italy. 

Laura  was  bitterly  disappointed,  for  she  thought  he  would 
have  come  for  the  sake  of  seeing  her,  at  least;  but  she  could  not 
write  to  him,  since  they  both  felt  that  correspondence  would  be 
wrong  so  long  as  their  love  for  each  other  had  not  the  sanction 
of  an  actual  engagement.  That  he  persisted  in  disapproval 
after  renewed  explanation  was  another  grief,  as  it  made  her 
anxious  on  Amy's  account. 


CHARLOTTE   MARY  YONGE  289 

Guy  went  to  Oxford  once  more,  for  his  degree,  and  then  to 
Redclyfife  to  make  his  home  ready  for  his  bride,  returning  to 
Hollywell  after  a  fortnight  at  Redclyffe,  for  a  quiet  week  with 
the  Edmonstones.  It  was  settled  that  the  wedding  journey 
should  be  taken  on  the  Continent  and  should  include  Switzer- 
land, since  it  occurred  to  Guy  that  his  attendant,  Arnaud,  might 
thus  see  the  relatives  he  had  long  wished  to  visit.  Sir  Guy  and 
his  wife  reached  Altdorf  by  the  middle  of  July,  where  in  the 
travelers'  book  at  their  hotel  they  saw  Captain  Morville's  name 
registered,  its  owner  having  been  there  a  day  or  two  before. 
They  did  not  immediately  come  up  with  him,  and  while  roaming 
about  for  a  short  time  alone  at  one  of  their  stopping-places  Amy 
was  saved  from  falling  down  a  precipice  by  the  timely  arrival  of 
Guy,  whose  steadiness  of  nerve  alone  preserved  them  both.  At 
Lugano  Guy  wrote  to  Philip,  poste  restante,  asking  him  to  join 
them  at  Bellagio,  explaining  to  Amy  that  to  make  friends  with 
Philip  was  now  the  one  wish  of  his  life. 

Meditating  upon  Guy's  note  and  intending  to  be  magnani- 
mous and  overlook  former  offenses,  Philip  arrived  at  Bellagio, 
where  he  was  warmly  welcomed  by  Guy,  who,  if  he  had  wished 
to  annoy  Philip,  could  hardly  have  done  so  more  effectually  than 
by  behaving  as  if  nothing  were  amiss,  and  disconcerting  his  prep- 
arations for  a  reconciliation.  It  presently  occurred  to  Philip 
that  it  might  be  well  for  him  to  take  charge  of  his  young  cousins 
and  show  them  how  to  travel;  and  out  came  his  pocket-map 
with  his  own  route  indicated  upon  it.  They  had  thought  of 
Venice,  but  were  readily  converted  to  Philip's  plan  of  skirting 
the  shores  of  Lake  Como,  thence  across  the  Stelvio  into  the 
Tyrol,  where  he  would  leave  them  at  Botzen,  while  they  pro- 
ceeded to  Innspruck  on  their  way  home. 

Though  Amy  secretly  felt  that  she  and  Guy  would  have  en- 
joyed their  travels  more  without  a  third  person,  she  was  glad  to 
see  that  Guy's  cordial  manner  appeared  to  have  softened  Phil- 
ip's distrust.  The  next  day,  however,  Guy  remarked  that  he 
feared  the  plan  must  be  given  up,  because  of  a  fever  said  to  be 
prevalent  at  Sondrio,  to  which  it  would  be  foolish  to  expose  them- 
selves. Philip  urged  that  a  fever  prevailing  among  half-starved 
peasantry  need  not  affect  healthy  persons  merely  passing  through 
the  country,  and  declined  to  consider  any  risk  involved.     Guy 

A.D.,   VOL.    XVII. — 19 


ago  THE   HEIR   OF  REDCLYFFE 

remained  firm,  nevertheless,  and  Philip  then  determined  to  follow 
his  original  design  alone.  The  elder  man  chose  to  assume  that 
Guy  was  wilfully  depriving  Amy  of  a  much-desired  longer  so- 
journ by  the  lake,  and  in  Guy's  absence  had  begun  some  patron- 
izing advice  to  her  on  wifely  deportment,  when  she  reminded 
him,  with  firm  gentleness,  that  he  forgot  to  whom  he  was  speak- 
ing. She  then,  to  her  listener's  astonishment,  said  that  he  had 
always  mistaken  Guy,  had  always  tried  his  temper  more  than 
anyone  else,  and  never  appreciated  his  struggles  to  subdue  it. 
He  replied  that  his  opinion  of  Guy  never  had  changed. 

"Whenever  it  does,"  said  Amy,  "you  will  be  sorry  you  have 
judged  him  so  harshly." 

Three  weeks  after  the  meeting  at  Bellagio  the  travelers,  on 
their  arrival  at  Vicenza,  heard  that  Philip  was  dangerously  ill  at 
Recoara,  a  small  town  in  the  mountains,  and,  going  there  im- 
mediately, they  found  him  neglected  and  unconscious.  Guy 
at  once  caused  his  removal  to  more  comfortable  quarters,  but 
days  elapsed  without  improvement  and  the  crisis  of  the  fever 
did  not  come  for  a  fortnight.  Just  before  this,  however,  a  gleam 
of  perfect  consciousness  came  to  the  patient,  in  which  he  asked 
whether  it  were  an  even  chance  between  life  and  death,  and  when 
Guy  answered  Yes,  he  expressed  his  regret  at  having  misjudged 
him  in  the  past,  and  sent  his  love  to  Laura,  adding :  "  We  have 
been  engaged  this  long  time,"  which  was  a  surprise  to  Guy  and 
Amy.  Delirium  soon  returned,  but  by  the  next  morning  the 
crisis  was  past  and  health  began  slowly  to  return.  Many  con- 
fidences and  explanations  ensued  with  returning  strength,  and 
it  was  planned  that  when  Philip  was  able  he  should  return  with 
them  to  Hollywell,  where  they  felt  sure  that  Mr.  Edmonstone 
would  forgive  the  concealed  engagement. 

Amy  was  not  allowed  to  see  him  for  some  days,  but  even  then 
was  struck  by  the  alteration  disease  had  made  in  Philip.  The 
next  morning  Guy  awoke  feeling  so  ill  that  he  was  obliged  to 
remain  in  bed,  and  Amy  at  his  request  attended  to  Philip's  needs. 
He  had  taken  the  fever,  but  it  did  not  run  so  high  as  in  the  other's 
case,  and  there  was  no  delirium,  but  almost  constant  torpor  in- 
stead. Amy  had  now  two  patients  to  care  for,  and  it  was  the 
tenth  day  of  Guy's  illness  ere  Philip  was  strong  enough  to  be 
dressed.    He  was  at  last  able  to  reach  the  room  where  Guy, 


CHARLOTTE   MARY  YONGE  291 

now  conscious,  gave  him  some  instructions  in  case  he  should 
succeed  to  the  title.  In  the  course  of  these  the  matter  of  the 
thousand  pounds  explained  itself,  and  Philip,  on  discovering 
the  truth,  was  overcome  with  self-abasement. 

"All  is  clear  between  us  now,"  said  Guy. 

This  was  their  last  interview,  for  early  the  next  day  Guy  was 
dead.  Amy's  parents  arrived  in  season  for  the  funeral,  and  near 
the  end  of  the  service  in  the  strangers'  corner  of  the  Italian 
cemetery  Philip  appeared,  ghastly  pale  and  full  of  bewilderment 
and  despair.  Later,  when  he  realized  that  he  was  heir  of  Red- 
clyffe,  he  remembered  with  horror  how  he  had  almost  coveted 
this  thing.  Guy's  will  made  Amy  and  Markham  executors. 
Amy  to  be  sole  guardian  in  case  of  the  birth  of  a  child.  If  this 
were  a  son,  Philip  was  to  have  ten  thousand  pounds.  When 
Philip  seemed  well  enough  to  be  left  in  the  care  of  Arnaud,  the 
Edmonstones,  with  Amy,  returned  to  Hollywell;  but  at  Corfu 
Philip  suffered  a  relapse  and  for  weeks  his  mind  was  astray. 
Two  months  went  by  before  he  was  able  to  return  to  England, 
and  in  March  a  little  girl  was  born  to  Amy,  and  the  succession 
to  Redely ffe  thus  passed  to  Philip.  It  was  his  wish  to  restore 
Guy's  child  to  the  succession,  but  Amy  would  not  consent,  be- 
cause Guy  did  not  wish  it,  and  she  insisted  that  Philip  should 
have  Redclyffe  according  to  the  provisions  of  the  will. 

The  Edmonstones  had  no  objection  to  the  marriage  of  Philip 
and  Laura,  but  it  was  arranged  that  the  event  should  not  occur 
till  a  twelvemonth  after  Guy's  death.  In  the  mean  time  Sir 
Philip  entered  Parliament,  for  which  his  talents  peculiarly  fitted 
him ;  but  he  suffered  much  from  depression  and  the  natural  weak- 
ness consequent  upon  two  sieges  of  fever,  and  it  was  long  before 
he  completely  recovered.  The  wedding  took  place  at  last,  but 
the  bridegroom  bore  the  look  of  a  careworn  man  of  thirty-five 
rather  than  that  of  one  whose  age  was  hardly  eight-and-twenty. 
His  nature  had  undergone  a  complete  change  in  the  year  since 
Guy's  death,  and  while  he  would  always  be  saddened,  his  over- 
weening confidence  in  his  own  judgment  and  motives  was  gone 
forever.  Many  would  think  him  stern  and  severe,  and  even  his 
own  children's  love  for  him  would  be  mingled  with  distant  awe, 
but  to  Guy's  child  he  was  never  otherwise  than  indulgent. 


ISRAEL   ZANGWILL 

(England,  1864) 
CHILDREN  OF  THE    GHETTO  (1892) 

This  story,  written  in  London  in  1892,  opened  up  a  new  field  of  English 
fiction,  easily  surpassing  similar  works  in  its  line.  It  has  been  translated  into 
German,  Russian,  Yiddish,  and  partly  into  Hebrew.  Its  success  drew  general 
attention  to  Mr.  Zangwill,  and  was  a  turning-point  in  his  hterary  career.  The 
book  was  dramatized  by  the  author  and  produced  both  in  the  United  States  and 
in  England. 

[HROUGH  Fashion  Street,  in  the  freezing  mist  of 
a  December  evening,  Esther  Ansell  sped  with  a 
pitcher  in  hand.  It  was  a  dull,  squaHd,  narrow 
thoroughfare  in  the  East  End  of  London,  con- 
necting Spitalfields  with  Whitechapel,  and  branch- 
ing off  in  blind  alleys.  Her  father,  Moses,  was 
reduced  to  such  poverty  by  slack  trade  in  the 
sweating-dens  that  he  had  applied  for  help  to  the 
Jewish  Board  of  Guardians,  whose  red  tape  was 
slow  to  unwind  for  such  an  old  offender  at  the  court  of  charity. 
Yet  he  could  not  be  denied  the  soup  and  bread  which  were  to  be 
had  for  the  asking  thrice  each  week  at  the  soup-kitchen  in  Fash- 
ion Street,  and  toward  this  institution  Esther  pressed,  passing 
in  her  eagerness  crowds  of  woman  applicants  on  a  similar 
errand. 

After  awaiting  her  turn  and  enduring  the  delay  caused  by 
speeches  and  prayers  at  the  public  meeting  that  preceded  the  dis- 
tribution of  soup,  Esther  was  running  through  the  mist,  with 
soup  and  loaves  of  bread  in  close  embrace.  She  almost  flew 
up  the  dark  flight  of  stairs  to  the  attic  in  Royal  Street. 

Little  Sarah  was  sobbing  querulously.  Esther  tried  to  take 
the  last  two  steps  at  once,  then  tripped  and  tumbled  against  the 
garret-door,  which  flew  back  and  let  her  fall  into  the  room  with 

292 


ISRAEL  ZANGWILL  293 

a  crash.  The  pitcher  broke,  the  odorous  soup  spread  itself  in 
all  directions  over  the  boards  and  under  the  two  beds,  and  Es- 
ther, with  wet  frock  and  bleeding  hands,  wept  bitterly.  Little 
Sarah  checked  her  sobs.  The  old  grandmother  cursed  her  for 
a  fool.  Ikey,  a  tot  of  four  and  a  half  years,  tottered  toward  Es- 
ther and,  nestling  his  curly  head  against  her  wet  bodice,  mur- 
mured : 

"  Neva  mind,  Estie,  I  lat  00  teep  in  my  new  bed." 

Defiantly  Esther  untied  the  loaves  from  her  pinafore.  They 
should  both  be  eaten  at  once — minus  a  hunk  for  father's  supper. 
Solomon  and  Rachel  in  their  excitement  snatched  a  loaf  from 
Esther's  hand  and  tore  off  a  crust  with  their  fingers,  while  the 
old  grandmother  called  them  "heathen"  because  they  had  not 
washed  and  uttered  the  customary  blessing.  The  operation  was 
rapidly  done  by  Solomon,  when  Rachel,  pausing  in  her  ravenous 
mastication,  made  a  wry  face.  Solomon  spat  out  his  mouthful; 
there  was  no  salt  in  the  bread. 

When  Moses  Ansell  returned  from  evening  service,  he  sat 
down  by  the  light  of  an  unexpected  candle  to  his  expected  supper 
of  bread  and  soup,  blessing  God  for  both  gifts.  Esther  had  put 
the  two  younger  children  to  bed,  and  the  grandmother  dozed  in 
her  chair.  Moses  ate  his  supper  with  a  great  smacking  of  lips 
and  thanked  God  in  a  rapid  singsong  prayer  which  lasted  ten 
minutes.  He  then  asked  Solomon  to  say  his  evening  prayer, 
and  the  boy,  producing  a  Hebrew  prayer-book  from  his  inky 
cotton  satchel,  made  a  mumbling  sound,  with  occasional  en- 
thusiastic bursts  of  audible  coherence,  for  a  length  of  time 
proportioned  to  the  number  of  pages.  Then  he  went  to  bed. 
After  that  Esther  put  her  grandmother  to  bed  and  curled  her- 
self at  her  side.  She  lay  awake  for  a  long  time,  listening  to  the 
quaint  sounds  emitted  by  her  father  in  his  study  of  Rashe's  com- 
mentary on  the  Book  of  Job,  the  measured  drone  blending  not 
disagreeably  with  the  far-away  sounds  of  Pesach  Weingott's 
fiddle — he  was  the  bridegroom  of  Fanny  Belcovitch,  whose 
father  had  a  workshop  on  the  floor  below,  and  whose  inmates 
were  disturbed  by  the  soup  trickling  through  the  ceiling. 

In  the  gray  morning,  when  Moses  Ansell  took  his  way  through 
the  Ghetto,  the  glories  of  the  Sunday  Fair,  so  long  associated 
with  Petticoat  Lane,  were  in  full  swing  and  the  venders  cried 


294  CHILDREN   OF  THE    GHETTO 

their  wares  in  stentorian  tones,  while  hybrid  posters  in  Yiddish, 
Hebrew,  and  Engh'sh  placarded  the  dead  walls  and  boardings. 
Here  and  there  Ansell  sought  work,  but  without  avail,  and  the 
rebuffs  crushed  his  spirit.  He  felt  that  he  could  not  face  his  own 
children,  with  the  dinner-hour  near  and  nothing  in  his  pocket 
but  holes. 

He  resolved  at  last  to  visit  Malka,  the  cousin  of  his  deceased 
wife,  a  wealthy  twig  of  the  family  tree,  to  be  approached  with 
awe  and  trembling.  She  kept  three  stores,  and  had  set  up  her 
newly  acquired  son-in-law  in  the  same  business.  He,  like  most 
of  her  wares,  was  second-hand,  having  lost  his  first  wife  four 
years  ago  in  Poland.  Ansell  found  her  in  her  own  quarters,  to 
which  she  always  retired  after  any  violent  quarrel  with  her 
daughter  Milly;  usually  she  preferred  Milly's  household.  Long 
was  the  conversation  with  Malka,  and  plentiful  her  advice. 
Finally  she  sent  Ansell  away  rejoicing. 

*'Here  are  five  shillings.  For  five  shillings  you  can  get  a 
basket  of  lemons.  If  you  sell  them  in  the  Lane  at  a  halfpenny 
each,  you  will  make  a  good  profit.  Put  aside  five  shillings  of 
your  takings  and  get  another  basket,  and  so  you  will  be  able  to 
live  until  the  tailoring  picks  up  a  bit." 

Moses  Ansell  blessed  her  as  he  departed,  and  bought  dinner, 
treating  his  family  to  circular  twisted  rolls  in  his  joy.  The  next 
day  he  laid  out  the  remnant  in  lemons,  and  stationed  himself  in 
the  Lane,  crying  out :  "Lemons,  verra  good  lemons;  two  a  penny 
each,  two  a  penny  each!'' 

Malka  soon  had  a  more  delicate  problem  to  solve  than  An- 
selPs  proficiency  in  trade.  At  the  festival  of  redemption  of  her 
Milly's  infant  son,  when  Mendel  Hyams  acted  as  priest  and 
received  fifteen  shillings  as  the  value  of  the  first-born  son,  whereby 
he  was  duly  and  sacredly  redeemed,  according  to  the  law,  a 
strange  incident  happened.  Sam  Levine,  who  was  already  en- 
gaged to  Leah  Phillips,  Malka's  granddaughter,  drew  a  little 
folded  paper  out  of  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  unwrapped  a  thick 
gold  ring  with  a  sparkling  diamond.  Leah  leaned  across  the 
table  to  receive  her  lover's  gift,  and  Sam  put  the  ring  near  her 
finger,  then  drew  it  away  teasingly. 

"Them  as  asks  sha'n't  have,"  he  said  in  high  humor. 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  laughed  Miriam  Hyams. 


ISRAEL  ZANGWILL 


29s 


"No;  I'm  going  to  give  it  to  the  little  girl  who  has  sat  quiet 
all  the  time.     Miss  Hannah  Jacobs,  rise  to  receive  your  prize." 

She  smiled  but  went  on  carving  the  fish,  when  he  leaned 
toward  her,  seized  her  right  hand,  and,  forcibly  adjusting  the 
ring  on  her  second  finger,  said  in  Hebrew:  *' Behold,  thou  art 
consecrated  unto  me  by  this  ring  according  to  the  Law  of  Moses 
and  Israel." 

It  was  only  when  he  realized  that  he  had  married  Hannah 
by  the  act  and  words  that  the  jest  became  a  tragedy.  For  no 
divorce,  in  the  eyes  of  Hannah's  father,  Reb  Shemuel,  could 
alter  the  fact ;  and  when  her  real  lover  appeared  in  a  few  weeks 
she  submitted  to  the  inevitable  rather  than  pain  her  father,  and 
refused  to  follow  the  man  of  her  affections.  For  David  belonged 
to  the  tribe  of  Cohaninij  who,  according  to  the  law,  could  not 
marry  a  divorced  woman.  Reb  Shemuel  held  to  the  letter  of  the 
law,  despite  all  protestations. 

"  David,"  she  called  his  name,  as  in  his  last  interview  with 
Reb  Shemuel.     "  David,  you  will  not  leave  me." 

He  faced  her  exultant.  "Ah,  you  will  come  with  me.  You 
will  be  my  wife." 

"No — ^no — ^not  now,  not  now.  I  cannot  answer  you  now. 
Let  me  think — good-by,  dearest,  good-by." 

She  wept,  and  he  kissed  her  passionately,  then  departed 
hurriedly. 

Hannah  continued  to  weep,  her  father  holding  her  hand 
in  piteous  silence. 

"  Oh,  it  is  cruel,  your  religion,"  she  sobbed.     "  Cruel,  cruel ! " 

"Hannah,  Shemuel,  where  are  you?"  suddenly  came  the 
mother's  voice  from  the  passage.  "Come  and  look  at  the  lovely 
fowls  I've  bought — and  such  Metsiahs,  They're  worth  double. 
Oh,  what  a  beautiful  Yomtov  we  shall  have." 

On  Seder  night — ^Passover  night — ^Hannah,  who  had  met 
David  in  the  mean  time,  had  arranged  to  meet  him  and  go  with 
him  to  Liverpool.  She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  he  slipped  on 
her  finger  the  ring  he  had  bought  the  day  before.  The  tears 
came  into  her  eyes  as  she  saw  what  he  had  done.  At  nine  he  was 
to  come  for  her.  She  accompanied  her  father  to  synagogue 
and  on  her  return  sat  at  the  Seder  table  as  if  in  a  dream.  But 
when  the  hour  approached  and  they  met  in  the  hall  preparatory 


296  CHILDREN   OF  THE    GHETTO 

to  flight  she  took  his  ring  out  of  her  i)ockct  and  slipped  it  into 
his  hand,  slamming  the  street-door  in  his  face  with  a  murmured 
''Good-by!" 

In  the  garret  of  Royal  Street,  Esther  Ansell  sat  brooding,  her 
heart  full  of  vague  tender  poetry,  and  penetrated  by  the  beauties 
of  Judaism,  which,  please  God,  she  would  always  cling  to;  her 
childish  vision  looking  forward  hopefully  to  the  larger  life  that 
the  years  would  bring. 

It  was  Mrs.  Henry  Goldsmith's  Chanukah  dinner,  and  the 
conversation  turned  upon  a  certain  author,  Edward  Armitage, 
whose  story,  Mordecai  Josephs,  had  scandalized  West  End 
Judaism. 

"The  whole  book  is  written  with  gall,"  said  Percy  Saville — 
Pan-Anglican  version  of  Pizer  Samuels.  *'I  suppose  the  man 
couldn't  get  into  good  Jewish  houses,  and  he's  revenged  himself 
by  slandering  them." 

"Then  he  ought  to  have  got  into  good  Jewish  houses,"  said 
Sidney  Graham.  "The  man  has  talent,  and  if  he  couldn't  get 
into  good  Jewish  society  because  he  didn't  have  money  enough, 
isn't  that  proof  sufficient  that  his  picture  is  true?" 

"I  don't  deny  that  there  are  people  among  us  who  make 
money  the  one  *  open  sesame '  to  their  houses,"  Mrs.  Henry 
Goldsmith  said  magnanimously. 

"The  book  is  true  enough,"  began  Mrs.  Montagu  Samuels. 
"  What  I  say  is,  he  ought  to  have  come  among  us  and  shown  the 
world  a  picture  of  the  cultivated  Jews." 

"Now  you,  Mr.  Leon,  whose  culture  is  certified  by  our  lead- 
ing university,  what  do  you  think  of  this  latest  portrait  of  the 
Jew?" 

"I  don't  know,  I  haven't  read  it!"  he  replied  apologetically. 

"I  wonder  the  Chief  Rabbi  doesn't  stop  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Samuels. 

"My  dear,  how  can  he?"  inquired  her  husband. 

"He  has  no  control  over  the  publishing  trade." 

"But  if  nobody  has  read  the  man's  book,"  Raphael  Leon 
ventured  to  interrupt  at  last,  "  is  it  quite  fair  to  assume  that  his 
book  isn't  fit  to  read?" 

The  shy,  dark  little  girl  he  had  taken  down  to  dinner  gave 


ISRAEL  ZANGWILL  297 

him  an  appreciative  glance.  ''Stop  a  moment,"  said  Sidney. 
"I  have  read  the  book,  and  it  has  more  actuah'ty  than  Daniel 
Deronda  and  Nathan  der  Weise  put  together.  It  is  a  crude  pro- 
duction all  the  same;  the  writer's  artistic  gift  seems  handicapped 
by  a  dead  weight  of  moral  platitudes  and  highfalution  and  even 
mysticism.  Instead  of  being  satisfied  that  Judea  gives  him 
characters  that  are  interesting,  he  laments  their  lack  of  culture." 

When  the  gentlemen  joined  the  ladies  after  the  coffee  and 
cigars,  Raphael  turned  to  his  companion  of  the  dinner-table, 
whose  face  would  have  been  almost  plain  but  for  the  soul 
behind  it. 

"Do  you  sutler  from  headaches?"  he  asked. 

"A  little.  The  doctor  says  I  studied  too  much  and  worked 
too  hard  when  a  little  girl." 

"  Oh,  I  wonder  your  parents  let  you  over-exert  yourself." 

"I  brought  myself  up,"  she  said.  "You  look  puzzled — oh, 
I  know —    Confess  you  think  I  am  Miss  Goldsmith." 

"Why — are — ^you — ^not?"  he  stammered. 

"No,  my  name  is  Ansell,  Esther  Ansell.  Ah,  if  you  only 
knew  my  life!" 

At  his  bidding  she  began  to  tell  of  her  childhood,  when  Rev. 
Joseph  Strelitski,  the  minister  of  the  fashionable  synagogue,  was 
a  poor  Russian  neighbor,  who  sold  cigars  on  commission  and 
earned  an  honest  living. 

"My  mother  died  when  I  was  seven;  my  father  was  a  Rus- 
sian pauper  alien  who  rarely  got  work.  An  elder  brother  of 
brilliant  promise  died  before  he  was  thirteen.  I  had  several 
brothers  and  sisters  and  a  grandmother,  and  we  all  lived  half- 
starved  in  a  garret.  When  I  grew  up  I  got  on  well  at  school, 
and  about  ten  years  ago  I  won  a  prize  given  by  Mrs.  Henry 
Goldsmith,  arousing  her  kindly  interest  thenceforward.  At 
thirteen  I  became  a  pupil-teacher.  The  work  was  hard.  The 
poverty  was  acute.  I  had  to  teach  Scripture  history,  and  I  didn't 
believe  in  it.  Everything  was  sordid  around  me,  I  yearned 
for  a  fuller  life.  I  was  often  the  sole  bread-winner.  My  brother 
Solomon  could  not  get  decent  employment  because  he  must 
not  work  on  the  Sabbath.  Finally  Mrs.  Goldsmith  adopted  me. 
She  shipped  father  and  the  other  children  to  America,  where 
she  secured  work  for  him  in  Chicago.     I  was  educated  and  was 


298  CHILDREN   OF  THE   GHETTO 

graduated  at  the  London  University.  I  traveled  and  was  envied, 
and  yet  I  do  not  know  whether  I  would  not  return  to  teaching 
without  regret.  And  your  life?  I  hope  you  will  repay  confi- 
dences in  kind.'^ 

"  I  was  born  of  rich  but  honest  parents,  and  went  to  Harrow 
and  Oxford  in  due  course.  I  corresponded  with  a  great  Hebrew 
scholar  and  was  moved  to  tears  by  the  enthusiasm  at  the  foun- 
dation of  the  Holy  Land  League.  There  I  met  Strelitski  and 
a  poverty-stricken  poet,  Melchitsekek  Pinchas.  He  is  a  real, 
neglected  genius.  I  have  been  asked  to  edit  a  new  Jewish  paper, 
of  orthodox  principles." 

On  Mrs.  Goldsmith's  entrance,  Esther  was  induced  to  sing 
a  ballad.  Leon's  thoughts  were  of  her  when  she  had  finished 
and  he  hoped  he  might  be  of  service  to  turn  her  morbid  fancies 
to  better  directions.     Then  he  left  for  his  own  home. 

The  new  paper  duly  appeared,  financed  by  Henry  Gold- 
smith and  with  Leon  as  editor  and  little  Sampson  as  assistant. 
It  had  a  hard  struggle  to  reconcile  principles  and  pence;  and 
with  its  motley  band  of  writers,  headed  by  the  poet  Pinchas, 
Leon  found  it  no  easy  matter  to  sit  gracefully  in  the  editorial 
chair.  An  interview  with  Strelitski,  who  had  resolved  to  cease 
being  a  hypocrite  and  to  give  up  his  pastorate  to  go  to  America, 
where  the  atmosphere  was  one  of  freedom,  stirred  many  a  doubt 
in  Leon's  mind  and  caused  a  gradual  change  in  editorial  style, 
which  did  not  please  the  owner  of  the  paper.  A  closer  ac- 
quaintance with  Esther  increased  his  dissatisfaction  with  his  edi- 
torship, and  he  was  glad  when  the  connection  was  severed. 

Esther,  too,  was  to  sever  her  connection  with  the  Gold- 
smiths. It  had  to  come.  She  would  go  back  again  to  the 
Ghetto,  and  she  told  her  resolve  to  Leon. 

"But  what  will  you  do?"  he  inquired  anxiously. 

"What  do  other  girls  do?  Teaching,  needlework,  anything. 
Remember  I'm  a  graduate  and  an  experienced  teacher." 

"No,  no,  this  must  not  be!"  he  cried,  and  his  hand  gripped 
hers  fiercely. 

For  a  moment  she  was  thrilled  with  fire  and  the  next  instant 
chilled  as  by  a  gray  fog.  Who  was  she?  What  was  an  Oxford 
graduate  to  her,  a  child  of  the  Ghetto? 

"What  right  have  you  to  say  it  must  not  be?    I  can  stand 


ISRAEL  ZANGWILL 


299 


alone,  yes,  and  face  the  whole  world.  Perhaps  you  don't  know 
that  I  wrote  Mordecai  Josephs  ?^^ 

"  You  wrote  it!" 

"Yes,  I.  I  am  Edward  Armitage.  Did  these  initials  never 
strike  you?  I  wrote  it  and  I  glory  in  it.  The  picture  is  true, 
though  all  Jewry  declare  it  false.  I  can  live  without  your  nar- 
row-minded friends.  Too  long  have  they  cramped  my  soul. 
Now  I  am  going  to  cut  myself  free  from  them  and  you  forever. 
Good-by!'' 

When  she  left,  he  took  up  again  her  book  and  read  her  eager 
soul  in  every  line.  Now  he  understood.  How  blind  he  had 
been! 

That  very  night  Esther  wrote  Mrs.  Goldsmith  a  letter, 
acknowledging  the  authorship  of  Mordecai  Josephs,  and  became 
again  an  inmate  of  the  Ghetto,  speeding  up  the  stairs  where 
lived  Debby,  a  seamstress  she  had  befriended  years  before. 

"Debby!"  she  cried  hysterically.  A  great  flood  of  joy 
swamped  her  soul.  She  was  not  alone  in  the  world  after  all. 
"I've  come  back,  Debby,  I've  come  back,"  and  the  next  moment 
the  brilliant  girl-graduate  fell  fainting  into  the  seamstress's 
arms,  within  half  an  hour  smiling  pallidly  and  drinking  tea  out 
of  Debby's  own  cup. 

The  next  day  she  went  to  her  publishers  to  notify  them  of  her 
departure  from  her  old  address;  but  what  was  her  amazement 
to  receive  from  them  a  check  for  sixty-two  pounds  ten,  as  her 
share  of  the  book's  profits.  It  was  a  failure  at  first,  but  the 
demand  increased  as  its  nature  leaked  out.  And  now  the  pub- 
lishers spoke  of  bringing  out  a  new  edition  in  the  autumn.  They 
even  asked  her  to  write  a  further  work  on  the  same  topics.  But 
Esther's  mind  wrestled  with  other  thoughts;  the  old  sense  of 
protecting  motherhood  came  back  to  her  when  she  heard  that 
her  sister  Rachel  was  engaged  to  be  married.  It  seemed  of  the 
fitness  of  things  that  she  should  go  to  America  and  resume  her 
interrupted  maternal  duties. 

A  group  of  three  stood  on  the  saloon  deck  of  an  outward- 
bound  steamer.  Leon  took  Esther's  little  hand  once  more, 
and  it  lingered  confidingly  in  his  own.  There  was  no  ring  of  be- 
trothal as  yet;  that  would  come  when  her  sister  Rachel  Ansell 


300  CHILDREN   OF  THE   GHETTO 

in  America  and  her  sister  Addie  Leon  in  England  were  married. 

The  last  moment  had  come.     He  stooped  to  kiss  her;  it  was  a 

first  kiss,  sad  and  sweet,  troth  and  parting  in  one. 

"Good-by,  Strelitski,"  said  Raphael  Leon.      ''Success   to 

your  dreams." 

*'  Good-by,"  he  responded.     "  Success  to  your  hopes." 
Raphael  darted  away  with  his  long  slide,  and  Esther  stretched 

out  her  arms  toward  the  vanishing  figure  of  her  lover.     But  she 
Ijjl  saw  him  once  again  in  the  tender,  waving  his  handkerchief 

"^  toward  the  vessel  that  glided  across  the  great  waters  toward 

the  New  World. 


EMILE   ZOLA 

(France,  1 840-1 902) 
CLAUDE^S  CONFESSION   (1865) 

In  this  romance  Emile  Zola  makes  a  young  Provencal  of  twenty  narrate  to 
two  young  countrymen  of  his,  still  in  Provence,  the  anguish  that  despairing  love 
wrought  in  his  soul  in  Paris.  In  a  preface,  Zola,  who  went  to  Paris  when 
eighteen,  and  at  twenty  was  laboriously  earning  twelve  dollars  a  month,  apolo- 
gizes to  two  friends — P.  Cezanne  and  J.  B.  Bailie — for  telling  this  harrowing 
tale,  which,  he  says,  "will  be  revolting  to  refined  minds,"  on  the  ground  of  its 
value  as  a  moral  lesson  in  sin  and  redemption.  "The  whole  story  is  the  struggle 
of  dream  and  reality,"  he  declares,  "and  Claude  tells  his  sufferings  that  other 
young  men  may  escape  like  ones." 


Y  brothers,  winter  has  come  in  Paris  sad  and 
chill.  I  am  living,  suffering  and  alone,  in  this 
bare  garret,  whose  long,  slanting  walls,  with  their 
shadowy  comers,  resemble  those  of  a  coffin.  A 
few  pieces  of  cheap  furniture  are  in  the  room; 
faded  red  hangings  around  the  bed,  and  curtain- 
less  windows  look  upon  a  high,  blank  wall;  plaster 
shows  through  the  rent  paper,  dust  covers  every- 
thing; and  such  a  grim  silence  prevails  that  I  can 
hear  the  sobs  of  my  heart. 

Brothers,  you  remember  our  sunny  boyhood  days  in  Pro- 
vence, when  we  had  friendship  and  dreamed  of  love  and  glory. 
You  pictured  as  your  sweethearts  sun-browned  queens  of  the 
fields  and  the  vineyards.  My  own  vision  was  of  a  delicate, 
golden  virgin,  with  the  royalty  of  the  lakes  and  clouds,  who 
walked  with  languid  grace,  as  if  ready  at  any  moment  to  quit 
the  earth. 

Five  weeks  ago  I  parted  from  you  and  our  wide  horizons  of 
the  sunlit  South  to  come  to  Paris  to  win  a  crown  of  glory  and 
find  the  beloved  goddess  destined  for  my  twenty  years.    You 

301 


302  CLAUDE'S  CONFESSION 

have  seen  me  in  my  garret.  Yesterday,  with  a  fire  on  my  hearth 
and  two  candles  recklessly  lighted,  I  hummed  gaily  as  I  pre- 
pared for  my  evening's  work. 

As  I  seated  myself  I  heard  agitated  voices  and  hurried  steps 
on  the  stairs ;  doors  opened  and  shut ;  muffled  cries  arose.  Some- 
one came  to  my  door  and  said  that  a  woman  down-stairs  was 
having  a  nervous  attack.  I  put  on  my  coat,  went  down,  and 
pushed  into  a  room  where  a  glimmer  of  light  showed  beneath 
the  door.  It  was  dark  and  cold,  and  as  miserable  as  my  attic. 
One  flickering  candle  on  the  mantelpiece  revealed  a  disordered 
bed,  with  wearing  apparel  strewn  over  it,  and  a  pallid  form  lying 
amid  slovenly  confusion.  I  should  have  taken  it  for  a  corpse 
but  for  a  convulsive  movement  of  the  arms. 

A  blowzy,  gray-haired  hag,  yeUow  and  skinny,  who  was 
standing  slouchily  beside  the  bed,  turned,  and  letting  the  woman 
she  was  supporting  faU  back  upon  the  pillow  she  approached 
me,  saying:  "Thank  you  for  coming,  sir.  I  am  too  old  to  sit  up 
watching.  She  is  over  her  attack,  and  will  be  all  right  when 
she  wakes  up.  Good  night!"  With  this  she  waddled  out, 
leaving  me  in  charge ! 

I  took  the  candle  and  drew  near  the  bed.  A  woman  about 
twenty  years  old  lay  on  it,  with  her  feet  drawn  up,  her  arms 
stretched  out  stiflly,  and  her  averted  face  concealed  in  her  di- 
sheveled hair.  I  put  it  back  from  her  face.  Sne  was  ugly  and 
worn,  thin  eyelashes  bordered  her  closed  lids;  her  brow  was 
low  and  retreating,  and  there  was  a  loose  look  to  her  large 
mouth,  which  w^as  partly  open.  Premature  decay  had  stamped 
her  features  with  weariness  and  avidity. 

The  surroundings  corresponded  with  her  gaunt  squalor. 
There  was  a  spotted  mirror  on  the  wall;  some  cosmetics  on  a 
table;  satin  shoes,  run  down  at  the  heel,  stood  near  a  chair;  I 
noted  soiled  linen,  faded  ribbons,  and  scraps  of  lace,  and  tossed 
in  a  corner  lay  a  blue  satin  gown  with  black  velvet  trimmings, 
draggled  with  mud  from  the  street.  I  shook  it  out  and  hung 
it  up;  then  I  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  looked  at  the  woman 
again.  Rest  had  brought  a  half-smile  to  her  lips,  and  suffering 
lent  a  suggestion  of  pathetic  grace  to  her  poor,  worn  face.  She 
was  one  of  those  women  who  traffic  with  a  body  from  which 
Heaven  has  withdrawn  the  soul.    My  brothers,  never  in  our 


fiMILE  ZOLA  303 

dreams  had  we  pictured  a  half-nude  girl  of  the  gutter,  lying 
asleep  on  a  pallet  in  a  gloomy  attic ! 

The  woman  shifted  her  position,  and  the  movement  exposed 
her  bosom  to  me.  It  was  a  shock  to  my  soul.  I  felt  a  shame 
for  this  young  woman  that  almost  moved  me  to  tears.  Never 
before  had  I  beheld  any  revelation  of  a  woman's  form,  except 
the  brown,  bare  arms  of  peasants  washing  their  linen.  I  could 
not  withdraw  my  gaze  from  the  soft  undulations  of  that  snowy 
bosom,  though  it  filled  me  with  a  mental  intoxication.  I  who 
had  dreamed  of  a  virgin's  delicate  charms  was  inebriating  my- 
self from  a  soiled  cup ! 

Suddenly  her  eyes  opened.  She  beheld  me  without  surprise, 
smiled  dreamily,  and  slowly  extended  toward  me  her  arms. 
My  brothers,  that  night  has  killed  how  many  dreams  of  my  soul ! 
When  I  went  to  my  garret  in  the  morning  it  seemed  fit  that  the 
hearth  should  hold  only  gray  ashes  of  the  fire,  that  the  candles 
had  burned  themselves  out.  The  purest  dream  of  my  youth  had 
also  faded.  This  horrible  phantom  of  a  first  love  will  obtrude 
its  grim  presence  into  every  dream  of  love  I  shall  know  hereafter. 

The  next  day  I  ran  across  the  old  woman  toiling  laboriously 
up-stairs.  "Ah,  I  am  getting  old,"  she  said.  "If  you  could 
have  seen  me  at  sixteen,  with  fresh  cheeks  and  golden  locks,  you 
could  understand  why  they  called  me  Paquerette.  I  am  no 
Easter  daisy  now,  in  my  garret  under  the  roof.  I  moved  a 
flight  up  every  five  years.  Laurence,  lucky  girl,  is  only  on  the 
third  floor  as  yet.    She  is  better  to-day." 

Laurence!  I  had  not  known  her  name  until  then.  My 
brothers,  each  day  finds  me  poorer,  and  all  ambition  to  write 
has  deserted  me.  Yesterday  I  went  to  bed  at  five  o'clock,  leav- 
ing my  key  in  the  door.  At  midnight  something  made  me  open 
my  eyes.  My  candles  had  been  lighted,  and  there  in  her  satin 
gown,  her  bare  shoulders  blue  with  the  cold,  stood — Laurence! 

"My  friend,"  she  said,  "I  owe  the  landlord  forty  francs,  and 
he  has  locked  me  out.  It  is  too  late  to  look  for  a  lodging.  I  re- 
membered you." 

She  smiled,  and  sitting  down  began  to  unlace  her  shoes.  I 
was  dazed.  I  almost  felt  like  crying  out  for  help.  "  We  wiU  live 
just  as  you  like.    You  shall  not  find  me  any  trouble,"  she  added. 

"Madame!    I — I  am — bitterly  poor!"  I  stammered. 


304  CLAUDE'S   CONFESSION 

"Madame!"  she  repeated.  "You  are  too  respectful,  my 
boy,  to  be  rich,"  and  she  laughed  harshly.  "Well,  we  can  be 
poor  together.  Or  will  you  drive  me  out?  The  only  home  we 
girls  know  is  the  street." 

"But  find  someone  w^ho  has  a  little  money,"  I  said.  "I 
haven't  a  sou.     You  wouldn't  thank  me  should  I  take  you  in." 

She  rose  wTathfully.  "You  wanted  me,  and  now  you  are 
mean  enough  to  throw  me  off.  You  are  a  coward.  You  are 
mine,  as  much  as  I  was  yours,  and  you  can't  help  it,"  she  ex- 
claimed breathlessly. 

My  brothers,  I  was  weeping.  Perhaps  Heaven  was  setting 
me  a  heroic  task.  Could  I  redeem  her  by  gentleness  and  pa- 
tient kindness?  I  did  not  feel  drawn  to  her,  but  if  I  could  bring 
self-respect  to  her  soul,  and  an  honest  regard  for  me  as  a  simple 
friend,  would  it  not  be  more  sanctifying  for  me  than  would  an 
innocent  girl's  love? 

"Stay,  then!    You  are  cold.    Lie  down  and  sleep,"  I  said. 

A  week  of  patient  effort  proved  to  me  that  she  might  try  to 
please  me  through  some  sense  of  gratitude,  but  that  her  soul 
was  immune  to  the  charm  of  modesty  or  of  respectable  toil.  I 
tried  to  interest  her  in  needlework.  I  could  see  that  she  loathed 
it.  She  would  sit  unrepiningly  for  hours,  in  her  blue  satin  gown, 
without  a  vestige  of  occupation.  Wondering  whether  her  soul 
were  utterly  dead  to  emotion,  I  took  her  to  one  of  the  rowdy, 
gay  balls  of  the  Latin  Quarter.  She  was  as  intoxicated  with  it 
as  a  child  with  a  toy.  This  was  the  heaven  in  which  my  soiled 
bird  fluttered  with  joy.  The  experiment  threw  me  into  a  dull 
torpor  of  despair  on  her  account.  Associated  thus  with  a  crea- 
ture so  fallen,  without  any  shade  of  love,  with  no  dim  hope  of 
redemption,  I  was  overcome  with  the  degrading  horror  of  the 
thought. 

This  morning  coming  up  the  stairs  I  met  a  trig,  self-possessed 
young  man  with  a  wan  little  girl,  pale  and  naive.  "How  do 
you  do,  Claude,"  he  said,  with  perfect  nonchalance.  It  was  that 
big  Jacques,  whose  assurance  we  used  to  wonder  at  when  we 
watched  him  walk  in  the  court  at  college.  He  lives  two  floors 
below,  and  this  delicate  child  is  his  mistress!  I  feel  as  if  she 
would  never  live  to  be  a  woman,  this  pallid  litde  outcast  with  the 
tender,  innocent  smile  of  a  saint. 


fiMILE   ZOLA  305 

Brothers,  I  have  sunk  so  low  that  I  have  no  aspiration  for 
work,  for  a  man's  honest  endeavor.  I  pawn  one  after  another 
of  my  poor  belongings  to  secure  the  few  sous  which  will  carry 
us  through  the  day.  And  I  have  sunk  to  a  new,  strange  depth, 
which  I  cannot  explain.  You  have  heard  me  tell  my  boyish 
dreams;  you  have  heard  me  say  that  my  love  could  never  rest 
upon  anything  but  a  young  and  innocent  girl.  Hear  now  my 
tale  of  mournful  shame!  In  the  depths  into  which  I  have  sunk 
I  have  taken  into  my  heart,  to  cherish  as  avidly  as  a  dying  man 
clings  to  the  life  that  is  slipping  from  him,  a  woman  plucked 
from  the  mire.     Brothers,  I  love  Laurence ! 

One  evening  Jacques  had  a  party  in  his  room.  We  became 
intoxicated.  Toward  morning,  when  only  ourselves  were  there, 
old  Paquerette  noisily  bade  me  embrace  little  Marie,  and  ordered 
Jacques  to  do  the  same  to  Laurence.  They  gaily  complied.  I 
stooped  to  kiss  Marie's  brow,  when  the  little  creature  bent  her 
head  back,  and  as  our  lips  met  I  saw  in  her  child's  eyes  a  depth 
of  pure  blue  which  seemed  to  me  to  be  her  soul,  innocent  with 
ignorance. 

Not  long  ago  Marie  changed  to  a  room  on  my  garret  floor. 
This  flower  of  the  Paris  streets  is  dying.  A  hollow  cough  is  car- 
rying her  away.  This  disturbed  Jacques  in  his  studies,  so  he 
calmly  had  her  removed,  appointing  Paquerette  as  her  nurse. 
How  terribly  she  coughed  last  night!  I  went  to  see  her  in  the 
morning.  She  lay  with  her  slender  arms  stretched  along  her 
little  body,  her  head  supported  on  two  pillows.  She  was  so 
fragile,  so  pale,  yet  pathetically  resigned,  and  greeted  me  with 
her  child's  unknowing  smile.  Strange  innocence  in  evil!  I  sat 
down,  after  paternally  kissing  her  brow,  and  took  her  little, 
wasted  hand  in  mine.  As  she  turned  her  fevered  eyes  with  that 
pure  blue  in  their  depths  upon  me,  declaring  that  she  did  not 
suffer  and  was  resting  well,  pity  for  the  lamentably  pathetic 
little  creature  fairly  choked  me. 

Paquerette  came  in,  and  began  chaffing  us  in  her  hideously 
cheerful  banter.  "There^s  a  dear  little  sweetheart  for  you, 
Claude,"  she  cackled.  Marie  withdrew  her  hand.  "  Be  quiet ! " 
I  exclaimed  fiercely.  "I  love  Laurence."  The  litde  hand 
slipped  into  mine  again. 

"Then  watch  her!"  snapped  the  old  woman  petulantly. 

A.D.,  VOL.  xvn. — 20 


3o6  CLAUDE'S  CONFESSION 

''She  and  Jacques  know  how  to  amuse  themselves.  You  waste 
yourself  with  her.     That  little  dear  would  really  love  you." 

I  shot  a  disgusted  glance  at  Paquerette,  then  bent  and 
pressed  a  brother's  kiss  on  the  child's  brow,  who  smiled  with 
wan  sweetness.  But  the  wretched  harridan's  barb  had  stung 
me  to  a  mad  jealousy.  To  have  humbled  myself  to  degradation ; 
to  have  then  sunk  to  the  lower  deep  of  madly  adoring  this  woman 
whom  I  could  not  respect,  and  to  think  that  the  absolute  depth 
of  all  abasement  might  await  me  in  her  betrayal  of  my  devotion, 
was  to  feel  my  brain  reel. 

I  had  a  fearful  scene  with  Laurence.  She  was  cold  and 
silent.  I  had  one  red  moment  in  which  my  hands  were  tight 
about  her  throat,  like  embodied  vindictive  justice.  I  was  spared 
a  murderer's  remorse;  but  the  sense  that  I  was  to  lose  her  after 
my  moral  suicide  for  her  sake  was  akin  to  it  in  anguish.  Yet  I 
still  loved  her  madly.  In  my  frenzied  ardor  to  hold  her,  to  win 
her  back  if  she  were  about  to  be  lost  to  me,  I  even  sought 
Jacques's  advice.    He  was  not  unkindly,  in  his  hard  way. 

''You  are  made  for  virtue,  Claude.  That  makes  your  sit- 
uation so  deplorable.  I  must  hurt  you  to  help  you.  Laurence 
is  nothing  but  a  low  woman.  Such  as  she  are  to  be  walked  on, 
not  adored.  If  she  annoys  you  kick  her  out.  Why,  my  boy, 
your  friends  have  to  defend  you  when  it  is  said  that  you  are 
using  her  to  support  yourself!"  he  concluded,  with  calculated 
cruelty. 

I  rushed  away,  banging  his  door  violently  behind  me.  I 
sought  Laurence,  implored  her  to  recognize  my  adoration  and 
to  give  me  a  loyal  love  in  return.  I  even  begged  her  to  leave 
Paris,  and  live  a  life  of  sunlit  peace  with  me  in  my  dear  Pro- 
vence. We  had  once  been  in  the  country  together  in  the  spring- 
time, and  she  had  seemed  another  woman. 

"You  are  a  child,  Claude,"  she  said,  at  last,  phlegmatically. 
"You  choked  me  the  other  day.  You  kneel  to  me  now,  as  if 
I  were  a  holy  virgin.  I  stay  with  you.  Doesn't  that  prove  that 
I  love  you?  But  I  do  not  understand  these  turns.  You  had 
better  try  to  make  money,  that  we  may  have  more  to  eat!" 

I  was  losing  her !  There  was  no  show  of  love  in  this  matter- 
of-fact  insensibility.  But,  my  brothers,  not  even  this  stolid  in- 
difference of  hers  could  quench  the  devastating  fire  of  my  love. 


fiMILE  ZOLA  307 

You  cannot  understand  this;  but  you  will  believe  it,  and  will  pity 
such  abject  wo. 

Marie  is  my  refuge  in  this  misery.  So  sweet,  so  uncomplain- 
ing, though  she  is  dying  with  the  deep  purity  of  her  soul  burning 
in  her  blue  gaze.  I  feel  as  if  we  should  die  together  soon.  Her 
gentle  peacefulness  assuages  my  fevered  soul.  With  her  I  for- 
get for  the  while  the  fever  that  Laurence  awakens  in  me. 

I  was  in  her  dim  room  yesterday  as  day  was  declining.  A 
single  candle  faintly  illumined  the  somber  place.  As  I  saw  the 
little  flower-like  creature  in  the  shadows,  I  felt  that  her  soul  might 
take  its  flight  that  night.  I  felt  my  heart  constrict  with  pity  for 
the  neglected,  suffering  child,  till  I  could  hardly  endure  the  strain. 
I  rose  and  went  to  the  open  window  to  seek  air  and  a  moment's 
respite.  As  I  looked  out  on  the  night  a  square  of  yellow  light 
on  the  wall  opposite  caught  my  eye.  I  realized  that  it  was  cast 
by  Jacques's  window  below.  As  I  looked,  grotesque  shadows 
flitted  erratically  across  this  square  of  yellow  in  fantastic  move- 
ments. They  appeared  monstrous  and  senseless.  Then  they 
sharpened  into  two  clear-cut  profiles,  a  man's  and  a  woman's. 
They  were  embracing.  Suddenly  they  stood  still  for  a  moment. 
Then  the  silhouetted  faces  approached,  and  melted  into  a  long, 
impassioned  kiss,  which  sent  an  icy  dart  through  my  heart  and 
brain,  for  I  recognized  Laurence  and  Jacques,  betraying  them- 
selves to  me  on  that  hard,  dumb  wall!  Then,  in  revulsion, 
my  heart,  with  one  triumphant  leap,  flung  off  the  love  that  had 
poisoned  my  entire  being  and  clogged  all  my  energies.  Whatever 
else  those  dancing  shadows  had  told,  they  had  shown  me  Lau- 
rence, who  had  so  coldly  heard  me  pour  forth  my  very  soul  in 
entreaty,  clinging  in  a  long  passionate  kiss  to  Jacques's  lips. 
She  had  scorned  me,  an  adorer,  for  the  cold,  material  passion  of 
a  man  who  rated  her  as  a  commodity. 

As  I  felt  my  world  crumble,  and  knew  that  I  stood  without 
any  belief  on  which  I  could  fall  back,  I  stumbled  back  to  the 
bed  where  Marie  lay  and  fell  on  my  knees,  stifled  with  sobs. 

The  little  one  awoke  and  saw  my  tears.  With  a  desperate 
effort,  she  raised  herself,  trembling  with  fever,  and  resting  her 
head  on  my  shoulder  wound  her  thin,  burning  arm  protectingly 
about  my  neck.  Her  eyes,  luminous  with  the  light  of  death's 
approach,  regarded  m^  with  the  tenderest  compassion. 


3o8  CLAUDE'S  CONFESSION 

I  would  have  liked  to  pray.  Stricken,  weak  with  a  childish 
despair,  I  longed  to  cast  myself  on  a  good  God  who  would  have 
pity  on  me.  I  yearned  to  turn  from  that  coarse  treachery  be- 
low, to  love  elsewhere,  in  the  light,  in  the  absolute.  I  stretched 
my  arms  out  in  despair.  My  hand  encountered  Marie's  and  I 
gently  grasped  it.  Her  eyes  still  held  me  with  their  wide,  tender 
inquiry. 

"Oh,  little  one,*'  I  groaned;  "let  us  pray  together!" 

"What  is  it,  Claude?"  she  asked  in  her  faint,  caressing  voice, 
trying  to  dry  my  tears. 

I  felt,  with  a  pang,  that  she  would  die  in  my  arms,  as  my 
love  had  died  in  my  heart,  and  I  groaned  again:  "Child,  let  us 
pray.    Let  us  pray  together  for  peace,  for  forgiveness." 

"Why,  Claude?  Look  at  me!"  She  smiled,  with  that 
marvelous  innocence  of  her  helpless,  lifelong  ignorance!  She 
was  comforting  me.  "Don't  you  see  that  I  feel  quite  easy?  I 
am  happy,  and  nothing  troubles  me."  Then  after  a  moment: 
"Shall  I  pray  for  you,  Claude?  Then  you  must  join  my  hands 
and  tell  me  the  prayers  they  teach  the  village  children,  and  I  will 
pray  God  that  you  may  not  weep." 

I  was  praying  that  God  would  take  her  in  her  ignorance  and 
let  us  both  die.  Marie  pressed  me  more  closely,  and  placed  her 
cheek  against  mine. 

"  Listen,  Claude.  I  will  get  up  to-morrow  and  put  on  a  white 
gown,  and  we'll  leave  this  house,  and  get  a  little  room  for  our- 
selves where  we  shall  be  all  alone.  Jacques  does  not  like  me, 
because  I  am  too  weak  and  pale.  But  you  have  a  kind  heart, 
and  will  take  good  care  of  me,  and  we  shall  be  gay  and  gentle. 
I  am  a  little  tired,  and  I  need  a  good  brother,  like  you.  Do  you 
want  to  do  this?" 

What  words  from  a  dying  child,  who  was  descending  into 
her  grave  with  the  naive,  inherent,  unintentional  immodesty  that 
was  the  note  of  her  being!  I  supported  her  frail  body  as  if  it 
were  sacred  flesh,  and  I  listened  to  her  low,  eager  voice  with  a 
deep  and  reverent  compassion.    What  is  Evil?    What  is  Good? 

"Where  is  Jacques?"  she  asked  inconsequently. 

"He  is  in  his  room.  Laurence  is  there.  They  are  lovers 
now.    I  have  parted  with  Laurence  forever." 

"Oh!"     She  clasped  her  tiny  hands  and  smiled  radiantly. 


._t 


fiMILE  ZOLA  309 

"  Then  it  will  be  so  easy.  We  ought  to  thank  them  for  being  so 
kind.  I  did  not  like  Laurence.  I  feared  she  was  not  good  to 
you.  I  shall  never  give  you  a  moment's  trouble,  Claude.  Do 
you  remember  the  night  they  embraced  and  you  kissed  me? 
Come !  Let  me  kiss  you  now,  Claude.  This  second  kiss  is  for 
our  betrothal." 

She  pressed  her  lips  to  mine,  nestling  close  to  me,  still  the 
child.  I  felt  her  breath  upon  my  lips,  and  a  little  cry.  The 
delicate  body  which  I  so  easily  supported  trembled  with  a  sud- 
den movement.  Then  it  sank  limp  in  my  arms.  I  looked  into 
her  eyes,  which  were  wide  open.  The  blue  light  that  had  burned 
in  them  when  she  gave  me  her  first  kiss  was  not  there. 

Marie  had  died  in  my  arms.  That  kiss,  with  which  she  had 
bestowed  herself  upon  me,  had  been  borne  to  me  upon  her  pass- 
ing soul. 

I  laid  her  on  the  bed  and  composed  her  limbs.  Then  I 
placed  her  head  upon  my  arm,  held  her  thin  hands,  and  great 
tears  welled  from  my  eyes  and  fell  upon  her  silky  hair.  I  do  not 
know  how  long  I  sat  thus.  Paquerette  burst  in,  and,  realizing 
that  the  child  was  dead,  uttered  appalling  cries  that  could  be 
heard  in  the  street.  There  were  sounds  through  the  house, 
then  steps  on  the  stairs,  and  the  door  opened.  Laurence 
and  Jacques,  half -clothed,  entered  in  alarm  at  the  cries  of 
Paquerette. 

As  they  took  in  the  spectacle,  Jacques,  overcome,  approached 
the  bed,  fell  on  his  knees,  and  buried  his  head  in  the  bed-clothes, 
silent  and  stunned.  Laurence  took  some  steps  toward  me,  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  my  face.  I  pressed  the  dead  child  more  closely 
to  my  breast  as  a  protection  and  my  armor. 

''Don't  come  any  nearer!"  I  said  sternly.  "I  know  you 
now!" 

"Claude!"  she  said  sweetly.     *'Let  me  kiss  her." 

*'You  would  profane  her,"  I  replied,  "with  your  lips  still 
warm  from  Jacques's  kisses." 

"Claude" — she  stretched  her  arms  toward  me — "I  need 
your  kindness.     Hear  me!     Speak  to  me — gently." 

Was  this  Laurence?  I  only  pressed  Marie  closer  to  me  as 
a  safeguard  against  any  relenting.  Laurence  fell  upon  her 
knees.     I  said  to  her  coldly:  "Get  up!    I  wish  to  end  all  this 


3IO  CLAUDE'S  CONFESSION 

completely.  You  don't  belong  as  far  up-stairs  as  this.  Jacques 
is  your  protector." 

She  rose.     *'Then  you  cast  me  off?''  she  demanded. 

"You  have  cast  yourself  off.  I  simply  tell  you  to  stay  with 
the  man  to  whom  you  have  gone  of  your  own  choice." 

"You  are  mistaken.  I  have  gone  nowhere,  Claude" — 
and  with  slow  steps  and  a  luring  smile,  Laurence  advanced 
toward  me,  her  arms  extended  in  meek  entreaty — "I  love  you!" 

"Stop!  This  dead  child  I  hold  to  my  heart  has  brought  me 
peace  and  has  freed  me  from  the  mad  slavery  to  you  into  which 
misery  and  an  infamous  passion  had  cast  me.  You  no  longer 
have  any  appeal  for  me,  soul  or  body.  Marie  has  just  breathed 
forth  her  soul  upon  my  lips.  Your  soiled  mouth  shall  never 
touch  them  to  rob  me  of  it." 

Laurence  sobbed.  "Claude,  I  have  not  understood.  But 
I  have  done  you  no  harm.  I  love  you.  Take  me.  Beat  me, 
if  you  wish,  but  do  not  drive  me  away  from  you!" 

"If  you  are  not  dead  to  all  feeling,  go!  You  are  forever 
dead  to  me.  Go — to  something  decent,  if  you  can !  But  leave 
me  to  recover  hope  and  a  life  that  has  some  brightness  in  it.  We 
are  through,  forever!    Can't  you  understand?" 

Laurence  feU  upon  the  floor  and  began  to  sob  convulsively. 
She  hysterically  beat  the  floor  with  her  hands  and  feet.  She  bit 
her  hair,  which  fell  about  her  face.  She  was  the  fierce  prey  of 
her  own  wild,  disordered  emotions. 

I  looked  at  her,  crushed  and  wailing,  and  felt — neither  pity 
nor  wrath. 

At  last  she  spent  her  disorderly  rage  and  dragged  herself 
toward  me  in  a  last  appeal.  She  confessed  her  treachery.  She 
could  not  account  for  it.  But  she  could  not  leave  me.  Could 
I  not  forgive  ?  This  woman  was  to  be  a  mystery  to  me,  and  a 
nightmare,  even  to  the  last.  I  felt  only  a  great  weariness  of  her. 
I  made  a  movement  of  disgust  and  impatience  and  turned  away. 

She  rose  painfully  and  retreated,  still  holding  me  with  her 
eyes.  She  paused  a  moment  on  the  threshold.  Then  she  dis- 
appeared in  the  shadows.  The  old  blue  satin  robe,  which  had 
such  memories  for  me,  was  the  last  sight,  and  its  swish  on  the 
stairs  the  last  sound,  that  was  to  recall  Laurence.  She  had  gone 
from  my  life.    I  was  free. 


fiMILE  ZOLA  311 

Jacques  had  not  stirred.  He  remained  thus  till  dawn.  Then 
he  rose  abruptly ;  he  bent,  and  kissed  Marie's  brow,  and  I  could 
feel  him  shiver  from  its  chill.  He  stretched  out  his  hand  to  me. 
But  I  was  through  with  him  as  I  was  with  Laurence.  He,  too, 
was  obscure  to  my  mental  vision.  Had  he  lied  to  me  or  had  he 
meant  to  help  me  in  my  own  despite?  I  accepted  his  hand  and 
he  left  me. 

I  passed  the  night  there  with  the  dead  child  who  had  gone 
to  sleep  after  telling  me  that  we  would  live  together  so  happily. 
What  thoughts  had  I — who  lived,  with  my  broken  youth — what 
thoughts  that  night!  Jacques  was  right  when  he  told  me  that 
I  vv^as  ill.  I  have  been  through  a  delirium.  I,  a  being  for  the 
pure,  breezy  heights,  the  wide,  scented  fields,  have  come  to  Paris, 
where  beautiful  Youth  gaily  wallows  in  the  mire.  I  have  loved 
a  fallen  creature  without  soul,  and  have  yielded  to  her  the  hom- 
age and  utter  devotion  which  I  should  have  accorded  to  a  pure 
being. 

I  found  myself  this  morning  kneeling  at  the  side  of  the  bed 
where  Marie  lay  sleeping.  My  pride  is  broken,  my  youth  has 
mournfully  perished.  Can  this  heart  of  mine  be  healed?  It 
must  be  done  there,  with  you,  my  brothers,  in  our  fair  Provence. 
I  will  seek  there  forgetfulness  of  this  year  of  horror.  To-mor- 
row,  my  brothers,  I  come  to  you. 


t 


THERESE  RAQUIN   (1867) 

Zola  worked  his  way  through  much  severe  criticism  to  a  wide  popularity 
by  a  series  of  novels  treating  with  appalling  frankness  the  lowest  phases  of  vice, 
squalor,  and  crime.  He  declared  that  he  followed  this  course  with  the  express 
purpose  of  promoting  social  reform  rather  than  catering  to  the  low  appetites 
of  the  vicious;  and  this  plea  is  probably  correct. 


[he  Widow  Raquin  lived  on  a  short,  extremely 
narrow  passage,  or  close,  intended  as  a  sort  of 
cut-off  between  the  Rue  Mazarine  and  the  Rue 
de  la  Seine.  It  was  not  more  than  thirty  paces 
long,  and  was  noisome  and  dark.  She  had  for- 
merly conducted  a  cloth-shop  at  Vernon.  But, 
yearning  for  a  change  after  the  death  of  her  hus- 
band, she  sold  her  properties,  and  with  a  capital 
of  forty  thousand  francs,  yielding  a  net  income 
of  two  thousand  a  year,  she  rented  for  five  hundred  francs  the 
shop  and  very  modest  dwelling  that  took  up  a  good  part  of  the 
little  close,  resumed  her  business  on  the  ground  floor,  and  set- 
tled there  for  the  remainder  of  her  days. 

Her  family  consisted  of  her  son  Camille,  a  pale,  flaccid  youth 
of  eighteen,  who  had  been  all  his  days  a  weakling,  afflicted  with 
many  ailments ;  and  her  niece  Therese,  at  this  time  a  girl  budding 
into  womanhood.  As  regarded  health  Therese  needed  no  phy- 
sicians nor  drugs.  Her  father,  a  petty  officer,  had  served  in  Al- 
giers, married  a  strong,  handsome,  hot-blooded  woman  of  Oran, 
brought  their  daughter,  still  a  child,  to  Vernon  with  all  the  pa- 
pers required  by  law,  left  her  in  perpetuity  with  his  sister,  the 
Widow  Raquin,  and  then  returned  to  Africa  and  committed 
suicide. 

The  little  girl  slept  in  the  same  bed  with  Camille  until  she 
reached  years  of  discretion,  when  she  was  removed  to  the  room 
opposite  his.  As  time  went  on  and  the  cousins  reached  a  mar- 
riageable age,  the  widow  announced  that  she  intended  them  to 

312 


fiMILE   ZOLA  313 

be  married;  and  she  fixed  the  date  on  the  twenty-first  birthday 
of  Thdrese.  No  objection  was  made  by  either  party;  they  ac- 
cepted the  arrangement  as  a  matter  of  course,  so  unsophisticated 
were  they ;  and  they  looked  forward  to  the  set  time  with  a  calm- 
ness that  was  almost  pathetic.  The  years  went  by  and  the  day 
arrived.  So  far  as  is  apparent  from  the  record  of  this  singular 
family,  there  was  no  formal  ceremony ;  only  the  widow  gave  her 
niece  an  account  of  her  origin  and  some  appropriate  counsel. 
When  night  came  Therese  crossed  from  her  own  little  room  to 
that  of  Camille  on  the  right  of  the  hall,  and  shared  his  quarters. 
He  showed  neither  surprise  nor  any  unusual  emotion.  The  in- 
difference was  mutual.  This  was  the  only  change  that  occurred 
in  their  lives  to  celebrate  an  event  usually  considered  of  some 
importance. 

Then  a  strange  thing  came  to  pass.  On  the  eighth  day  after 
this  change  in  his  life  Camille  broke  out  in  a  most  unexpected 
manner.  He  announced  to  his  mother  that  he  was  going  to  leave 
Vernon  and  settle  in  Paris.  She  loudly  exclaimed  against  such 
an  idea.  She  was  contented  and  wanted  not  the  slightest  change. 
He  had  a  nervous  attack  on  the  spot  and  threatened  immediate 
illness  if  she  did  not  yield  to  his  caprice. 

"I  never  have  opposed  your  plans,"  he  said.  "I  have  mar- 
ried my  cousin;  I  have  swallowed  all  the  drugs  you  have  forced 
me  to  take.  To-day  I  have  formed  a  resolution;  I  resume  my 
will  power,  and  you  must  yield  to  it.  At  the  end  of  the  month 
we  leave  Vernon." 

The  widow  passed  a  sleepless  night,  and  her  plans  took 
shape  before  morning.  She  reasoned  that  it  was  possible  chil- 
dren might  follow  this  marriage;  these  things  usually  happen. 
In  such  event  the  income  must  be  increased.  In  any  case  oc- 
cupation must  be  found  for  Therese.  "I  will  find  and  open  a 
shop  for  us  two.  As  for  you,  Camille,  you  may  sun  yourself  all 
day  in  the  parks  or  do  whatever  you  please."  Such  was  the  plan 
the  well-intentioned  widow  of  fifty  announced  to  her  children 
at  breakfast  with  apparent  satisfaction.  Poor  woman !  she  was 
learning  in  earnest  that  life  is  a  perpetual  compromise  between 
our  wishes  and  our  possibilities. 

Armed  with  a  line  of  introduction  from  an  ancient  maiden 
of  Vernon  to  a  friend,  the  widow  found  and  rented  the  shop  in 


314  THfiRESE   RAQUIN 

the  close  and  the  floor  above.  Still  young  in  her  feelings,  she 
allowed  her  fancy  to  take  roseate  views  and  returned  to  Vernon 
all  aglow  with  satisfaction,  announcing  that  she  had  found  a 
pearl,  a  delicious  corner  in  the  very  heart  of  Paris.  "Ah,  my 
dear  Th^r^se,"  said  the  poor  woman,  "you  shall  see  how  happy 
we  shall  be  in  that  nook.  Up-stairs  are  three  beautiful  chambers ; 
the  lane  is  full  of  passing  people.  Go  to !  we  shall  not  suffer  with 
ennuV^ 

But  when  Th^rese  entered  the  shop  selected  it  seemed  to  her 
as  if  she  had  descended  into  the  dampness  of  a  trench.  She 
choked  and  shook  with  foreboding.  The  general  effect  of  every- 
thing, both  up-stairs  and  down,  gave  her  an  indefinable  shock. 
She  could  not  even  find  relief  in  tears.  Madame  Raquin  herself 
was  not  so  well  satisfied  as  she  had  been  on  first  sight.  She 
realized  that  hope  and  fancy  had  run  away  with  her.  Still  she 
tried,  if  only  in  self-defense,  to  make  light  of  the  objections  to 
the  place.  As  for  Camille,  who  expected  to  pass  most  of  his  time 
elsewhere,  he  said:  "Bah!  this  is  very  well.  By  candle-light  it 
will  be  very  agreeable.  I  shall  be  away  until  five  or  six  in  the 
evening;  and  you  two  will  have  each  other's  company;  how  can 
you  possibly  feel  lonely?" 

Therese,  seating  herself  behind  the  counter,  in  a  stupor, 
made  no  effort  to  put  things  in  order.  When  her  mother-in-law 
suggested  that  she  might  be  pasting  fresh  paper  on  the  wall  or 
arranging  flowers  in  the  window,  she  replied  with  exasperating 
apathy:  "What  is  the  use?  Things  are  well  enough  as  they  are. 
We  are  not  looking  for  luxury!" 

At  length  Thdrese  so  far  modified  her  extreme  disgust  as  to 
find  a  woman  to  clean  and  arrange  the  place,  forcing  her 
mother-in-law  to  sit  down  and  look  on. 

As  for  Camille,  a  whole  month  passed  while  he  scoured  the 
city  to  find  employment.  He  was  on  the  point  of  proposing  to 
return  to  Vernon  when  he  found  a  place  in  the  Orleans  Railway, 
at  one  hundred  francs  a  month.  He  never  missed  a  day  at  his 
duty  and  passed  the  evenings  lying  on  his  back  reading  history 
and  scientific  treatises.  He  was  of  a  queer,  impassive  nature, 
but  not  altogether  a  fool,  and  besides  these  occupations  he  en- 
joyed the  beauties  of  scenery.  But  he  was  short,  thin,  and  ill- 
formed.    As  he  rarely  exchanged  a  word  with  his  wife,  and  as 


/% 


EMILE   ZOLA  315 

Th^r^se  never  looked  inside  of  a  book  or  a  periodical,  and  as  the 
widow  tended  the  shop,  the  household  could  hardly  be  called 
companionable. 

Years  went  by  in  this  cheerless  manner  until  a  change  oc- 
curred most  unexpectedly.  The  widow  one  day  ran  against 
an  old  friend,  Michaud  by  name.  He  was  passing  through  the 
close.  During  the  life  at  Vernon  he  and  his  family  had  actually 
lodged  for  some  twenty  years  under  the  same  roof  with  Madame 
Raquin.  The  families  had  lived  on  the  most  friendly  terms, 
but  under  stress  of  circumstances  they  had  grown  apart. 

Michaud  was  now  a  widower  and  a  pensioner  on  the  police 
force,  while  his  son  was  enjoying  a  large  salary  from  the  same 
source.  The  meeting  of  the  old  friends  was  indeed  joyful.  On 
the  following  Thursday  evening  Michaud  called,  and  it  was 
agreed  that  thereafter  on  every  Thursday  evening  he  and  his 
son,  and  occasionally  some  other  friend  they  might  bring,  should 
meet  there  in  the  cozy  dining-room,  to  chat  and  play  a  friendly 
game  of  dominoes.  As  Camille  had  said,  the  dwelling  was  cozy 
enough  by  candle-light. 

Therese,  listless,  nursing  tremendous  passions  of  which, 
through  lack  of  opportunity,  she  was  hardly  aware,  found  these 
occasions  of  no  interest  to  her.  Whenever  it  was  possible  she 
sat  apart,  stroking  the  old  cat,  Francois,  which  they  had  brought 
from  Vernon,  making  no  effort  to  conceal  the  yawning  that 
showed  her  complete  disgust  with  life  as  she  found  it.  One 
evening  Camille  brought  with  him  a  young  man  about  thirty 
years  old.  He  introduced  him  as  one  they  had  known  at  Vernon 
as  a  mere  lad,  and  invited  him  to  dine  with  them.  His  name 
was  Laurent.  He  was  in  the  same  railway  employ  as  Camille, 
but  they  had  only  just  discovered  the  fact.  Laurent  had  received 
a  good  education  and  asserted  that  he  had  taken  lessons  in  paint- 
ing as  well,  which  he  had  laid  aside  for  the  time,  committing  art 
to  the  deuce,  since  the  public  did  not  yet  appreciate  his  talent. 

The  impression  he  made  on  Therese  was  immediate  and  al- 
most stunning.  Since  she  had  reached  the  age  of  womanhood 
her  life  had  been  so  secluded  that  practically  she  had  never 
made  a  study  of  a  man  like  Laurent,  who  was  in  his  prime,  with 
rosy  complexion,  large  in  stature  and  breadth,  square-shouldered, 
with  long,  sinewy  arms,  fists  like  hammers,  thick  neck,  and 


3i6  THfiRESE   RAQUIN 

dark  eyes  under  heavy  eyebrows,  stern,  penetrating,  determined, 
like  those  of  a  bull.  This  revelation  of  what  physical  man  may 
be  took  her  entire  being  by  storm.  The  long  slumbering  pas- 
sions which  she  inherited  from  her  African  mother  and  which 
Camille  had  failed  to  arouse,  awoke  all  at  once.  She  trembled 
with  the  shock,  and  was  forced  to  leave  the  apartment. 

After  this  incident  hardly  an  evening  passed  that  Laurent 
failed  to  appear  at  the  shop  of  the  Raquin  family.  As  he  had 
quarreled  with  his  father  his  allowance  had  been  cut  off,  and  the 
small  salary  he  received  obliged  him  to  live  in  narrow  quarters 
on  simple  fare.  He  professed  to  find  a  paradise  under  the  roof 
of  the  Raquins,  and  probably  in  a  selfish  way  he  was  sincere. 
But  it  was  some  time  before  he  consciously  responded  to  the 
interest  he  had  aroused  in  the  bosom  of  Therese.  At  first  she 
seemed  to  him  dull  and  far  from  handsome.  If  he  was  attracted 
by  her  he  concealed  the  fact  or  it  came  gradually.  Thus  mat- 
ters proceeded  until  one  evening  Laurent  brought  with  him  his 
easel,  brushes,  and  colors,  announcing  that  he  wished  to  paint 
a  portrait  of  Camille. 

The  family  were  delighted,  at  least  Camille  and  his  good 
mother  were.  Therese  said  nothing.  But  under  a  spell  she 
followed  and  seated  herself  behind  and  near  to  Laurent,  watch- 
ing every  movement.  Was  it  he  or  the  work  that  he  was  about 
which  attracted  her?  The  sittings  occurred  after  four  o'clock, 
when  the  business  hours  closed.  Laurent,  heavy  and  slow, 
gradually  decided  that  Therese  was  in  love  with  him;  that  he 
only  had  to  shake  the  tree  and  the  plum  would  fall.  He  re- 
flected for  some  days  as  to  the  advantages  and  disadvantages 
and  of  the  temptation  thus  thrown  in  his  way.  Camille  was 
his  friend;  Therese  was  the  wife  of  his  friend,  who  had  treated 
him  very  civilly.  He  knew  not  yet  her  inexhaustible  resources 
of  passion.  But  the  pecuniary  cost  to  him  would  be  less  than 
what  he  usually  paid  for  such  favors,  which  were  rare  enough 
in  those  days  when  his  pocket  was  half  empty.  As  for  the  pos- 
sible discovery  of  the  intrigue,  if  Camille  showed  resentment, 
why  then — and  Laurent  stretched  out  his  arm  and  clenched  his 
fist  significantly. 

Having  decided  to  seize  the  first  opportunity,  Laurent  re- 
flected that  the  portrait  was  almost  finished,  and  that  if  he  should 


fiMILE   ZOLA  317 

fail  to  seize  the  first  occasion  that  offered  it  would  be  extremely 
difficult  to  find  another  chance.  If  it  were  a  wise  thing  to  do 
then  the  decision  of  Laurent  was  wise,  for  the  next  day  the 
portrait  was  pronounced  complete.  The  last  coat  of  color  and 
varnish  was  laid  on  what  was  a  stiff  and  chalky  likeness  of  a  very 
uninteresting  face. 

And  now  the  hour  and  the  woman  were  at  hand.  The  mo- 
ment of  destiny  had  come.  ^'  Nothing  dare,  nothing  win.  Af- 
ter it  is  done  we  can  arrange  where  to  meet  again,"  said  Laurent 
to  himself  when  Camille  went  after  two  bottles  of  champagne, 
to  drink  to  the  new  portrait,  while  the  Widow  Raquin  went  down- 
stairs to  tend  the  shop.  Turning  suddenly  around  in  his  chair, 
Laurent  faced  Therese.  She  did  not  avoid  the  long,  meaning 
glance  of  his  eyes;  the  next  moment,  without  a  word  on  either 
side,  the  deed  was  done  which  plunged  the  lovers  into  an  abyss 
of  irretrievable  doom — irretrievable  because  their  mutual  passion 
became  more  binding  and  terrible  with  continued  indulgence. 

With  the  cool  calculation  that  often  accompanies  women  of 
volcanic  nature,  more  quick-witted  than  most  men  in  matters 
requiring  tact  and  device,  Therese  was  able,  before  the  return 
of  Camille  with  the  champagne,  to  indicate  to  Laurent  that  he 
could  get  leave  of  absence  from  his  duties  at  times  in  the  after- 
noon and  creep  up  to  her  bedroom  by  a  very  narrow  stairway 
leading  to  it  from  the  alley.  Camille  would  still  be  away,  while 
the  widow  would  be  absorbed  by  the  shop.  On  the  plea  of 
lassitude  and  need  of  rest  Therese  could  easily  steal  upstairs 
and  pass  hours  there  without  interruption. 

This  arrangement  continued  for  some  time.  It  is  unneces- 
sary to  enter  into  the  details  of  the  furious  passion  which  drew 
the  lovers  more  and  more  intimately  together.  If  Laurent  had 
entered  into  this  intrigue  with  cool  calculation  he  ended  by  being 
as  infatuated  as  his  paramour,  while  she,  from  being  plain  and 
uninteresting,  developed  a  sensuous  beauty  that  had  needed 
sentiment  and  love  to  pierce  the  husk  that  concealed  it  and 
develop  into  the  fiery  splendor  of  the  flora  of  the  tropics. 

But  this  intrigue  entered  another  stage  of  its  existence  when 
the  employers  of  Laurent  informed  him  that  he  had  abused  the 
privileges  permitted  him  by  the  railway  company,  and  henceforth 
must  abandon  either  his  too  frequent  leave  of  absence  or  forfeit 


3i8  THfiRESE   RAQUIN 

his  post.  As  this  was  all  he  had  to  live  upon,  the  lovers  were  in 
despair.  Weeks  passed  without  their  meeting.  This  separation 
only  increased  their  love  for  each  other.  Finally  Th^r^se  made 
by  letter  an  appointment  at  his  room.  For  the  first  time  she 
passed  the  evening  away  from  her  home  and  husband.  She 
excused  herself  on  the  plea  that  she  wished  to  collect  a  debt  from 
a  customer  who  Hved  in  a  remote  part  of  the  city. 

At  this  interview  the  lovers  bemoaned  the  fate  that  interfered 
with  the  intercourse  that  was  so  entirely  natural  and  congenial, 
for  which  they  were  evidently  destined  and  ought  therefore  to  be 
permitted  to  enjoy  without  let  or  hindrance.  With  low-spoken 
hints,  with  bated  breath,  they  wondered  why  some  accident  such 
as  a  falling  brick  or  a  fatal  illness  did  not  remove  one  who  was 
clearly  not  needed,  who  was  a  miserable  obstacle  to  the  bliss 
of  a  pair  so  fitted  to  enjoy  each  other.  The  wish  was  father  to 
the  thought.  Before  they  parted  it  was  practically  understood 
between  them  that,  if  a  way  were  found  for  removing  this  sim- 
ple, blameless  lout  of  a  husband,  it  might  be  expedient  to  seize 
the  opportunity. 

When  people  are  prepared  to  accomplish  evil  deeds,  the  op- 
portunity is  usually  not  lacking.  Some  days  later  Camille  pro- 
posed a  Sunday  excursion  to  a  pleasant  resort  by  a  small  lake, 
where  they  might  stroll,  chat,  and  dine  under  the  trees  by  the 
waterside.  Somehow  both  the  guilty  lovers  instinctively  saw 
the  possibilities  offered  by  the  occasion. 

Why  dwell  on  the  horrors  that  ensued?  After  Camille  had 
had  a  nap  on  the  grass,  where  Laurent  came  near  to  murdering 
him  in  his  rage  that  the  poor  man  continued  to  live  when  it  was 
so  important  that  he  should  die,  and  after  a  dinner  had  been  or- 
dered, Laurent  suggested  that  while  it  was  preparing  they  should 
take  a  row  on  the  lake.  The  wherry  was  small.  Camille  was 
afraid  of  the  water;  but  Laurent  laughed  at  his  dread,  and  to 
save  appearances  Therese  agreed  to  be  of  the  party,  much  against 
her  will. 

Camille  was  lying  face  down  in  the  stern,  gazing  into  the 
water,  as  they  were  passing  under  the  shade  of  some  trees. 
Laurent  stood  up  and  suddenly  lifting  him  by  his  clothes  dropped 
him  in  the  water.  Camille  screamed  and  struggled,  and  Laurent, 
who  was  a  fearless  swimmer,  made  a  pretense  of  trying  to  save 


fiMILE   ZOLA  319 

him  as  he  went  down,  while  Th^rese,  now  realizing  what  it  was 
to  kill  a  man,  and  he  her  husband,  for  the  sake  of  illicit  love, 
sank  back  in  a  swoon. 

Boats  put  out  to  the  rescue.  But  nothing  more  was  ever 
seen  of  poor  Camille  until  his  body  came  to  the  surface  a  week 
later  and  was  placed  on  view  in  the  morgue. 

Strange  to  say,  instead  of  flying  into  each  other's  arms  and 
reveling  in  every  rapture,  free  as  they  now  were,  this  shocking 
crime  seemed  to  kill  the  passion  to  enjoy  which  they  had  removed 
Camille  by  foul  murder.  It  was  not  so  much  actual  horror  that 
overcame  them  at  this  crisis  as  positive  indifference  and  grad- 
ually dread  of  discovery.  For  the  time  being  their  sensibilities 
seemed  paralyzed.  The  murder,  which  the  lovers  supposed 
would  give  them  freedom,  produced  the  opposite  effect.  As  time 
passed  each  became  the  prey  of  appalling  visions.  The  strength 
they  had  intended  to  use  in  the  joys  of  love  was  exhausted  by 
the  sleepless  nights  and  nervous  strain  which  continually  op- 
pressed them. 

Therese  went  about  her  daily  duties  apathetically,  as  if 
drowned  in  sorrow  for  her  husband.  While  lacking  passion 
now,  both,  however,  looked  forward  to  marriage,  as  if  it  might 
restore  their  former  feeling,  and  by  the  aid  of  each  other's  society 
drive  away  the  abject  fear  felt  by  each  whenever  the  hour  for 
sleep  arrived.  But  a  vague  fear  of  arousing  suspicion  had  pre- 
vented Laurent  from  suggesting  it. 

Michaud  it  was  who  now  suggested  that  they  should  be  mar- 
ried. The  Widow  Raquin,  aunt  of  Therese,  received  the  hint 
with  delight.  She  labored  with  Therese,  while  Michaud,  in 
turn,  urged  the  plan  on  Laurent.  The  lovers  knew  not  exactly 
what  course  to  follow;  but  finally  agreed  to  the  plans,  were  be- 
trothed, and  passed  the  wedding-day  in  the  common  French 
way  by  breakfasting  in  the  country.  The  festivity  was  not  very 
hilarious,  but  dragged  along  slowly. 

The  wedded  pair  were  to  live  with  the  widow,  who  foolishly, 
in  an  impulse  of  affection,  bestowed  her  whole  fortune  on  The- 
rese. Michaud  succeeded  in  having  a  formal  paper  drawn  up 
which  reserved  it  from  the  grasp  of  Laurent.  He  was  already 
handicapped  in  purse  and  feelings  by  a  brief  letter  from  his 
father  telling  him  to  expect  not  a  sou  from  that  quarter,  and 


320  THfiRESE   RAQUIN 

bidding  him  go  and  be  hanged  without  a  blessing!  A  letter  of 
this  sort  at  such  a  time  was  far  from  cheering.  Two  years  had 
passed  since  the  murder.  In  all  that  time  the  lovers  had  neither 
kissed  nor  embraced,  and  now  they  were  to  occupy  the  room 
where  Th^r^se  and  Camille  had  lived,  and  where  Th^rbse  and 
Laurent  had  had  their  clandestine  interviews. 

It  was  a  gruesome  reunion  they  now  held  in  that  room  on 
their  wedding-night.  In  spite  of  the  grim  associations  of  the 
place,  mutual  love  seemed  about  to  awake  again,  when  Theresa 
touched  with  her  lips  the  scar  of  the  wound  made  by  the  teeth 
of  the  struggling  Camille  on  Laurent's  neck.  When  they  re- 
covered from  this  incident  and  were  about  to  embrace,  the  dead 
man's  ghost  appeared  between  them.  How  could  love  draw 
them  together  in  such  circumstances? 

Night  after  night  it  was  the  same.  But  if  they  would  escape 
suspicion  and  the  guillotine,  they  must  force  themselves  to  show 
to  the  world  a  subdued  serenity  that  was  far  different  from  the 
horrible  tempest  of  fear  and  despair  that  rent  their  beings. 

This  state  of  things  continued  until  insanity  or  death  drew 
on.  The  limit  of  endurance  had  been  reached.  By  an  in- 
stinctive understanding  they  both  retired  to  their  bedroom  one 
evening,  she  with  a  carving-knife  in  a  napkin,  and  he  with  a  vial 
of  prussic  acid,  which  he  had  taken  from  the  office  of  a  medical 
friend.  They  sat  down  by  the  table,  and  gazed  long  in  each 
other's  eyes.  Then  he  poured  the  poison  in  a  glass,  and  drank 
off  half.  Immediately  she  drank  the  other  half.  They  fell  to 
the  floor  as  if  struck  by  lightning. 


I 


THE  ABBE   MOURET'S  TRANSGRESSION   (1875) 

This  story  created  great  excitement  in  France,  and  considerable  animosity 
was  aroused  against  the  author  for  his  free  handling  of  religious  themes.  This 
sort  of  criticism  never  deterred  Zola,  however,  from  wielding  a  sharp  literary 
scalpel  in  behalf  of  any  cause  he  thought  right. 


^A  TEUSE,  the  vicarage  servant,  was  sweeping  out 
the  church,  and,  after  pausing  to  ring  the  bell, 
was  busy  dusting  the  altar,  when  the  Abbe  Mouret 
entered  to  celebrate  his  mass.  She  felt  quite  at 
home  in  the  church,  and  even  offered  to  serve  the 
mass — she  had  done  it  once,  in  the  former  priest^s 
time,  she  declared — ^when  the  altar-boy  was  late 
in  arriving.  She  chattered  unconcernedly  while 
the  young  and  devout  priest  was  vesting,  and 
would  not  be  repressed. 

The  Abbe  Mouret  was  twenty-six  years  old,  and  by  his  own 
desire  he  had  been  sent  to  the  parish  of  Les  Artaud,  a  hamlet  in 
a  valley  walled  in  by  hills  whose  tawny  slopes  were  covered  with 
pine  forests.  All  the  inhabitants  were  related,  and  bore  the 
same  name,  so  that,  from  their  very  cradles,  they  were  distin- 
guished by  nicknames.  For  a  long  time,  when  absorbed  in  his 
hours  of  devout  meditation,  the  Ahh6  Mouret's  dream  had  been 
of  some  hermit's  desert,  of  some  mountain  cavern,  where  no  liv- 
ing thing,  whether  being  or  plant,  should  distract  him  from  the 
contemplation  of  God — a  dream  that  sprang  from  the  purest 
love,  from  a  loathing  of  all  physical  sensation.  In  Les  Artaud 
he  hoped  to  realize  his  aspiration  of  human  annihilation.  In 
this  desolate  spot,  on  this  barren  soil,  he  could  shut  his  ears  to  all 
earthly  sounds  and  enjoy  the  never-waking  life  of  the  saints. 
And,  in  fact,  for  several  months,  his  existence  had  been  wholly 
undisturbed.  On  entering  holy  orders,  he  had  relinquished  all 
claim  on  his  parents'  property  in  favor  of  an  elder  brother,  and 


A.D.,  VOL.  xvn. — 21 


321 


322      THE   ABBfi   MOURET'S  TRANSGRESSION 

his  only  remaining  link  with  the  world  was  his  sister  D^sir^e, 
whom  he  had  undertaken  to  care  for,  stirred  by  a  kind  of  relig- 
ious emotion  at  her  weak  mind.  He  could  remember  having 
heard  temptation  spoken  of  as  an  abominable  torture  that  tries 
the  very  holiest,  but  he  could  only  smile.  If  temptation  must 
come,  he  awaited  it  with  the  calmness  of  the  inexperienced 
seminarist. 

It  was  very  hot  that  May  morning  when  the  Abb^  Mouret 
sallied  forth  on  his  parish  duties,  after  he  had  drunk  his  milk 
and  the  servant  had  tidied  him  up.  He  was  rudely  aroused 
from  his  reverie  on  the  way  by  Brother  Archangias,  a  member 
of  the  Christian  Brethren,  who  had  charge  of  the  village  school, 
and  complained  that  during  the  fifteen  years  of  his  incumbency 
he  had  not  turned  out  a  single  Christian.  He  laid  the  blame 
on  the  villagers,  whom  he  called  ''brute  beasts,"  with  no  interest 
in  life  outside  their  land,  their  vines,  and  their  olive-trees.  The 
priest  finally  stopped  the  man's  coarse  abuse,  and  proceeded  on 
his  special  errand,  which  was  to  persuade  well-to-do  old  Bam- 
bousse  to  allow  his  daughter  Rosalie  to  marry  her  poor  lover, 
Fortime  Brichet.     But  the  old  man  was  obdurate. 

When  the  priest  left  him,  he  saw  by  the  sun's  height  in  the 
sky  that  he  had  barely  time  if  he  wished  to  be  in  for  his  second 
breakfast  at  eleven  o'clock,  as  he  had  promised  La  Teuse.  But 
on  the  way  he  met  a  gig,  driven  by  his  uncle.  Dr.  Pascal  Rougon, 
who  was  speeding  to  old  Jeanbernat,  the  steward  of  Le  Paradou, 
to  whom  he  had  been  hastily  summoned.  The  old  man  must 
be  dead  by  this  time,  he  declared;  still,  one  must  always  make 
sure.  The  young  priest,  regardless  of  breakfast  and  scolding, 
offered  to  go  with  him,  as  the  dying  man  might  desire  his  services. 
Dr.  Pascal  (as  the  people  called  him)  roared  with  laughter  at 
this  suggestion,  but  took  his  nephew  into  the  gig.  After  a  while 
they  reached  a  table-land,  where  the  hollow  road  skirted  a  lofty 
and  apparently  endless  wall.  Les  Artaud  was  invisible,  though 
only  three  miles  distant.  This  park  wall  of  Le  Paradou  was 
fully  a  mile  and  a  half  long  on  that  side.  The  park  was  a  forest, 
surrounded  by  bold  rocks,  and  containing  the  source  of  the 
Mascle  River.  As  they  drove  along,  the  doctor  narrated  the 
story  of  Le  Paradou,  according  to  the  legend  of  the  country. 

In  the  time  of  Louis  XV  a  great  lord  had  erected  a  magnificent 


fiMILE  ZOLA  323 

palace  there,  with  enormous  gardens,  ponds,  trickling  streams, 
and  statues — a  miniature  Versailles,  hidden  away  among  the 
rocks  under  the  full  blaze  of  the  southern  sun.  But  he  had  spent 
there  only  one  season,  with  a  lady  of  bewitching  beauty,  who 
must  have  died  there,  as  no  one  ever  had  seen  her  depart.  Next 
year  the  mansion  was  destroyed  by  fire;  the  park  gates  were 
nailed  up,  and  the  very  loopholes  of  the  wall  became  filled  with 
mold.  For  a  hundred  years  the  park  had  been  running  wild. 
No  one  knew  who  owned  it.  The  owner  had  come  there  once, 
said  the  doctor,  twenty  years  previously,  but  had  been  so  scared 
at  an  adder's  nest  that  he  never  had  returned;  the  real  master 
was  the  caretaker,  that  old  oddity,  Jeanbernat,  who  had  man- 
aged to  find  quarters  in  the  lodge.  With  him  lived  his  niece, 
whom  he  had  been  obliged  to  take  in — a  regular  savage,  the 
doctor  declared. 

They  found  the  old  man  in  the  garden  of  his  little  house.  He 
vowed  that  he  did  not  need  a  physician;  he  had  bled  himself 
with  his  knife,  and  nothing  ailed  him  now. 

As  the  doctor  and  the  priest  were  about  to  depart,  Jeanber- 
nat's  niece  entered  from  the  park.  She  was  a  very  beautiful 
blonde  of  sixteen,  with  flowers  twined  in  her  hair  and  wreathed 
about  her  neck,  her  arms,  and  her  bodice.  She  was  a  queer  girl, 
that  Albine,  the  doctor  said,  as  they  drove  away.  Her  father, 
old  Jeanbernat's  brother,  had  committed  suicide  after  ruining 
himself,  when  the  child  was  nine  years  old.  She  had  been  at 
school,  dressed  beautifully,  could  embroider  and  strum  the 
piano  when  she  came ;  but  he  believed  that  now  she  did  not  even 
know  how  to  read.  She  spent  all  her  time  in  Le  Paradou,  and 
jumped  out  of  the  window  to  reach  it,  if  her  uncle  locked  her 
up  in  her  room.  The  doctor  found  them  both  very  interesting, 
and  never  failed  to  visit  them  when  he  was  in  the  neighborhood. 

The  priest  took  his  scolding  from  his  servant,  but  did  not 
mention  Le  Paradou.  It  came  out,  however,  that  evening;  for 
Albine  brought  Desiree  a  blackbird's  nest  with  three  nestlings 
while  he  was  eating  his  soup,  and  Brother  Archangias  was  cate- 
chizing him  as  to  his  doings  that  day.  The  brother  and  the 
servant  exchanged  scandalized  glances  when  they  heard  of  the 
visit  to  the  atheistic  Jeanbernat. 

That  afternoon  Desiree  had  kept  her  brother  for  a  long 


324     THE   ABBfi  MOURET'S  TRANSGRESSION 

while  in  the  hot  sun,  looking  at  her  beloved  fowls  and  animals, 
tntil  he  was  forced  to  flee,  almost  overcome  with  the  odors  and 
the  sensation  of  the  swelling  tide  of  life  everywhere,  which  vaguely 
disquieted  him.  When  he  reached  his  bedroom  at  night,  he 
felt  so  ill  that  he  lighted  the  fire  of  vine-stems  that  was  laid  on 
the  hearth.  Several  times  that  day  he  had  been  choked  by  a 
feeling  of  anxiety.  What  could  be  the  cause  of  such  mental 
anguish?  What  could  this  unknown  trouble  be,  which  had 
slowly  grown  within  him,  and  had  now  become  so  unbearable  ? 
He  had  not  fallen  into  sin.  His  prayers  did  not  refresh  or  calm 
him.  With  chattering  teeth,  felled  by  fever,  he  swooned  away 
on  the  floor,  in  the  middle  of  a  fervent  prayer  to  the  Virgin. 

Dawn  was  filtering  through  the  calico  curtains  carefully 
drawn  across  the  two  large  windows  in  a  vast  and  lofty  room 
fitted  up  with  antique  Louis  Quinze  furniture.  Near  a  side 
table,  on  which  a  kettle  bubbled  over  a  spirit  lamp,  sat  Albine, 
dressed  in  white  (instead  of  the  orange  petticoat  and  red  kerchief- 
belt,  as  formerly),  with  her  hair  gathered  up  in  a  lace  kerchief. 
She  was  weary;  and  presently,  impatient  at  waiting,  she  stepped 
to  the  large  alcove  and  lifted  the  comer  of  one  of  the  curtains. 
On  the  edge  of  the  big  bed  lay  Serge,  apparently  asleep.  Dur- 
ing his  illness  his  hair  had  lengthened,  and  his  beard  had  grown. 
He  was  very  pallid. 

*'I  am  not  asleep;  I  heard  you,  dear,"  he  said. 

Then  she  told  him  how  she  had  wept  the  whole  way  home, 
when  she  came  back  with  bad  news  of  him,  when  told  that  he 
was  delirious.  And  that  if  the  dreadful  fever  spared  his  life,  it 
would  destroy  his  reason.  She  had  hugged  and  kissed  his  uncle. 
Dr.  Pascal,  she  said,  when  he  had  brought  Serge  to  Le  Paradou 
to  recruit  his  health.  The  doctor  was  not  coming  any  more,  for 
she  was  to  be  his  doctor,  and  all  he  needed  was  coolness,  green- 
ery, quiet,  and  to  be  loved.  He  was  in  the  pavilion  of  the  ruined 
chateau  in  the  park,  and  Albine  had  given  up  her  room  to  him. 
Serge^s  head  was  still  empty  and  the  sound  of  Albine's  voice, 
he  said,  alone  prevented  his  hearing  the  wearying,  incessant 
ringing  of  bells.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  returned  from  a  long  jour- 
ney through  underground  passages,  where  the  pains  were  intol- 
erable, and  he  had  had  to  force  his  way  through  obstructing 


fiMILE  ZOLA  325 

walls  and  barriers.  He  was  not  yet  strong  enough  to  look  out 
at  the  trees,  and  rainy  weather  brought  back  his  fever  and  suf- 
fering.   At  times  his  state  was  alarming. 

One  day  Albine  took  him  in  her  arms,  carried  him  to  the 
window,  and  made  him  look  out.  He  gazed  at  the  park,  breath- 
less and  dumb.  Soon  he  began  to  take  a  few  steps,  clinging  to 
the  furniture;  but  with  returning  health  his  senses  were  still  par- 
alyzed by  a  stupor,  so  that  he  was  like  a  new-bom  infant,  and 
Albine  had  to  teach  him  the  names  of  objects  about  him.  Re- 
calling some  of  Dr.  Pascal's  words,  she  was  terrified  at  seeing 
him  linger  in  this  condition.  But  she  was  infinitely  patient  and 
resourceful  with  him.  By  cleverly  luring  him  on  and  amusing 
him,  she  enticed  him  to  descend  the  stairs,  and  sit  in  the  sunlight 
under  a  mulberry-tree  close  to  his  window.  That  morning  his 
mind  was  born  again.  His  fear  vanished;  he  enjoyed  the  love- 
liness of  the  garden  with  avidity,  and  Albine  cried  that  he  was 
beautiful,  that  she  never  had  really  seen  him  before.  But  he 
ignored  her  presence  now,  had  no  glance  for  her,  and  this  was 
bitter  to  her  heart.  After  that  he  walked  a  little  in  the  garden 
every  day;  and  at  last  Albine  helped  him  carefully  down  the 
steps  and  supported  him  as  they  wended  their  way  to  the  forest 
of  roses  that  had  developed  from  the  formerly  trim  trees. 

There,  on  the  turf  amid  the  odor  and  fragrance,  Serge  fell 
into  profound  slumber,  utterly  exhausted;  and  Albine  bent  over 
and  fervently  kissed  him  on  eyelids  and  lips.  When  he  awoke, 
he  gazed  at  her  with  a  stare  of  amazement,  as  if  startled  at  find- 
ing her  there,  and  asked  her:  ''What  are  you  doing  here  beside 
me  ?  "  And  as  she  smiled,  transported  with  delight  at  the  awak- 
ening of  his  mind,  he  seemed  to  remember,  and  continued  with 
an  air  of  happy  confidence :  ''  I  know — ^you  are  my  love.  I  was 
dreaming  of  you.     You  were  in  my  breast." 

Albine  listened  to  him  in  ecstasy.  At  last  he  saw  her,  at  last 
his  birth  was  accomplished,  his  cure  begun.  He  told  her  that 
she  was  his  very  breath  and  must  never  leave  him;  and  he  cried 
out  at  her  loveliness,  and  told  her  how  he  loved  her.  They  did 
not  kiss,  but  clasped  each  other  by  the  waist  and,  with  cheek 
laid  to  cheek,  remained  dumb  with  delight. 

After  a  time  they  went  into  the  flower-garden,  where  every 
kind  of  flower  ran  riot  in  masses  of  glowing  color.     Passing  from 


326     THE   ABBfi   MOURET^S  TRANSGRESSION 

one  forest  of  blossoms  to  another,  they  came  to  a  ruined  colon- 
nade, and  there,  seated  on  a  prostrate  marble  column,  amid 
a  luxuriant  growth  of  tall  lilies,  they  lingered  until  evening. 
The  next  day  they  rested  at  home,  but  amused  themselves  by 
examining  the  plaster  cupids  and  the  partly  obliterated  frescos 
in  Serge's  room.  Then  Albine  told  Serge  the  story  that  she  had 
heard  from  the  people  of  the  neighborhood  about  that  room  and 
the  park,  so  rightly  named  "Paradise."  When  it  had  belonged 
to  the  rich  lord,  he  Itad  shut  himself  up  in  it  with  the  beautiful 
lady.  The  walls  were  so  high,  and  the  gates  were  kept  so 
tightly  shut,  that  no  one  ever  caught  sight  of  her.  When  the 
lord  went  away  his  hair  was  white,  and  he  had  all  the  gates 
barricaded,  so  that  no  one  could  enter  and  disturb  the  lady; 
and  it  w^as  in  Serge's  room  that  the  lovely  lady  had  died.  This 
pavilion  had  been  built  expressly  for  her,  and  the  lord  spent  all 
his  days  and  nights  there,  the  servants  in  the  great  mansion  had 
said.  Often,  too,  they  had  seen  him  in  one  of  the  walks,  guiding 
the  tiny  feet  of  the  mysterious  lady,  who  looked  like  a  princess, 
toward  one  of  the  densest  and  darkest  coppices.  But  not  for 
worlds  would  they  have  ventured  to  play  the  spy  upon  the  couple, 
who  sometimes  remained  out  in  the  park  for  weeks  together. 

Serge  declared  that  he  felt  no  fear,  everything  was  so  peace- 
ful and  calm  in  that  death-chamber.  Then  Albine  edged  closer 
to  him,  and  told  him  something  more,  which  very  few  persons 
knew,  she  said.  The  lord  and  his  lovely  lady  had  discovered  in 
the  garden  a  certain  spot  where  perfect  happiness  was  to  be 
found,  and  there  they  afterward  spent  all  their  time.  It  was  a 
cool,  shady  spot,  hidden  away  in  the  midst  of  an  impenetrable 
jungle,  and  was  so  marvelously  beautiful  that  anyone  who 
reached  it  forgot  all  else  in  the  world.  There  the  poor  lady  must 
have  been  buried.  Serge  was  curious  to  know  where  this 
charmed  spot  was;  but  Albine  declared,  with  an  expression  of 
despair,  that  she  did  not  know;  she  had  searched  everywhere 
for  it,  in  vain.  She  had  begun  her  search  as  soon  as  she  came 
to  the  place,  and  would  certainly  recognize  it — that  glade  with 
its  mighty  tree  sheltering  beneath  its  canopy  of  foliage  a  carpet 
of  velvety  turf.  It  was  asserted  that  in  that  happy  clearing  one 
felt  the  joy  of  a  whole  lifetime  in  a  single  minute;  and  Albine 
proposed  that  she  and  Serge  should  set  off  on  the  morrow,  and 


fiMILE  ZOLA  327 

scour  the  park  from  bush  to  bush  until  they  found  it,  though 
she  declared  that  in  the  shade  of  the  tree  there  was  a  charm  that 
killed.  But  they  could  die,  clasped  in  each  other's  arms,  and 
no  one  would  ever  find  them.  What  mattered  it  if,  as  she  had 
been  told,  it  was  forbidden  to  sit  under  that  fatal  tree?  Their 
bliss  would  justify  disobedience. 

After  that  they  searched  for  the  charmed  spot,  making  their 
meals  off  the  fruit  in  the  old  orchard,  and  returning  at  twilight. 
Their  life  was  an  idyl  of  superb  summer.  One  day,  when  they 
had  reached  a  rocky  table -land.  Serge  spoke  of  separation. 
They  could  not  live  there  forever,  he  said;  and  he  had  a  sense  of 
being  parted  from  Albine  by  some  wall  built  up  between  them, 
which  he  could  not  beat  down  with  all  the  power  of  his  clenched 
fists.  He  dreaded  having  to  leave  her  some  time  or  other.  The 
thought  was  torture  to  them.  After  that.  Serge  barricaded  him- 
self in  his  room,  and  for  a  long  time  would  not  go  into  the  park. 
But  Albine  day  after  day  continued  her  search  for  the  tree  of 
happiness  to  the  point  of  exhaustion.  At  last  she  found  it,  and 
shortly  afterward  she  persuaded  Serge  to  go  with  her  to  it.  They 
must  have  passed  close  to  it  scores  of  times,  she  said.  It  was 
beautiful  beyond  description,  and  a  supreme  joy,  which  she  could 
never  name  or  understand,  seemed  to  pour  forth  from  the  leaves 
and  well  up  from  the  grass. 

She  asked  Serge  whether  he  would  marry  her,  and  they  would 
go  out  to  the  charmed  tree  together  and  live  there  forever.  She 
had  provided  a  priest,  a  stranger  to  that  part  of  the  country. 
In  the  outside  world,  marriage  bound  lives  together;  therefore 
she  besought  him  to  marry  her,  and  no  one  could  ever  separate 
them  more.  Serge  followed  her  to  the  room  below,  where  a 
cowled  form  greeted  him  placidly,  and,  after  pronouncing  a  few 
words,  departed.  Then,  hand  in  hand^  they  went  forth  into  the 
garden  rejoicing,  and  Albine  led  Serge  to  the  indescribably  lovely 
glade,  in  whose  center  towered  the  majestic  tree.  There  they 
rested  in  the  impenetrable  shade.  Their  cup  of  love  was  filled 
to  the  brim,  and  they  vowed  eternal  fidelity  to  each  other,  de- 
claring that  now  they  never  would  part. 

On  their  way  homeward  in  the  gloaming  Albine's  joy  was 
disturbed  and  unquiet;  she  was  persuaded  that  she  heard  foot- 
steps, that  they  were  pursued.     She  feared  that  someone  would 


328     THE   ABBfi   MOURET'S  TRANSGRESSION 

steal  her  husband  from  her.  Suddenly,  at  the  end  of  a  path, 
their  way  was  blocked  by  a  tall  gray  mass  of  the  boundary-wall. 
Possessed  by  an  overpowering  dread,  they  ran  along  it,  trying 
to  escape.  Suddenly  they  came  upon  a  breach  that  seemed  to 
open  upon  the  valley  like  a  huge  window.  Serge  stood  rooted 
to  the  spot,  gazing  out  over  the  open  country  where  Les  Artaud 
was  plainly  visible.  A  tremor  thrilled  through  him;  he  was  be- 
ginning to  recollect,  and  he  stretched  out  his  arms  toward  the 
village.  Albine  felt  that  all  was  over.  Then  the  chimes  of  the 
Angelus  floated  up  to  Le  Paradou,  and  Serge  fell  upon  his  knees, 
crying:  "  Oh,  Lord!"  quite  overcome  with  emotion.  It  all  came 
back  to  him,  and  he  fingered  his  long  beard,  he  fumbled  among 
his  long,  curling  locks  for  the  tonsure.  He  cast  a  glance  of  de- 
spair at  Albine,  who  clasped  him  in  her  arms  and  entreated  him 
to  escape,  far  away,  with  her.  He  replied  that  he  had  murdered 
himself,  and  his  hands  were  red  with  his  own  blood. 

Then  a  heavy  step  grated  on  the  pebbles  at  the  other  side  of 
the  wall,  and,  overwhelmed  with  a  sense  of  dread,  they  made  as 
if  to  hide  themselves  behind  a  bush.  It  was  too  late.  Brother 
Archangias  had  already  seen  them,  and  looked  at  them  with  the 
disgust  of  a  man  who  has  almost  stepped  into  a  den  of  thieves. 
Then  he  ground  his  teeth  and  exclaimed  that  it  was  what  he  had 
expected,  that  he  had  guessed  they  had  hidden  the  Abbe  Mou- 
ret  there.  He  upbraided  the  priest  in  violent  terms;  bade  him, 
in  God's  name,  leave  the  woman  and  the  garden,  while  Albine 
frantically  entreated  Serge  to  say  that  he  loved  her.  Serge 
stepped  toward  the  breach  in  the  wall;  and  Albine,  who  had 
fallen,  half-fainting,  to  the  ground,  rose  again,  choking  with 
sobs,  and  hurried  away. 

Early  one  morning  the  Abb^  Mouret  married  Fortune  Brichet 
to  Rosalie.  He  broke  down  as  he  was  addressing  the  young 
pair  and  exhorting  the  man  to  give  up  everything  for  his  wife. 
After  the  wedding  La  Teuse,  his  servant,  made  one  of  her  scenes 
for  him,  as  he  sipped  his  milk.  She  was  angry  because  he  would 
tell  her  nothing  about  his  stay  at  Le  Paradou.  This  morning 
she  told  him  that  he  ought  to  go  back,  if  he  was  so  happy  there ; 
doubtless  there  was  someone  at  Le  Paradou  who  would  look 
after  him  better  than  she  could.  But  La  Teuse's  kind  heart 
was  pricked  with  regret  as  he  uttered  a  slight  cry  and  raised  his 


fiMILE   ZOLA  329 

grief-racked  face  to  her.  She  told  him  that  she  often  had  news 
from  "over  yonder"  and  someone  there  was  no  happier  than  he 
was;  she  declared  that  she  meant  to  take  him  over  there  some 
day,  and  he  would  be  safe  with  her.  But  he  peremptorily  or- 
dered her  to  be  silent. 

The  Abbd  no  longer  took  long  walks,  but  remained  at  the 
vicarage.  Brother  Archangias  was  more  domineering  than  ever, 
and  maintained  strict  watch  over  him.  When  he  came  from 
celebrating  mass  on  the  Feast  of  the  Exaltation  of  the  Cross, 
feeling  that  he  had  conquered  and  was  restored  to  grace,  he 
found  his  uncle  Pascal  waiting  to  tell  him  that  Albine's  illness 
was  disquieting,  and  proposed  taking  him  to  Le  Paradou  for  a 
farewell  meeting.  But,  although  he  reminded  the  priest  that 
had  it  not  been  for  Albine  he  would  have  been  in  a  strait- 
jacket,  the  Abbe  Mouret  replied  that  all  he  could  do  for  the  per- 
son in  question  was  to  pray  for  her.  Then  the  doctor  said 
plainly  that  it  was  killing  Albine.  He  had  supposed  that  the 
Abbe  would  remain  at  Le  Paradou  for  a  month,  cheered  by  the 
lively  chatter  of  the  girl,  whom  he  in  turn  would  influence  and 
civilize.  He  could  not  foresee  that  Jeanbernat  would  not  stir 
an  inch  from  his  lettuce -beds,  and  would  allow  such  mischief  to 
come  to  pass.  He  undertook  that  Albine  should  go  far  away 
immediately  after  the  interview.  But  the  priest  refused  to  go 
with  him,  and  bade  him  tell  Albine  to  have  recourse  to  prayer, 
and  she  would  be  comforted  as  he  had  been. 

That  afternoon  Albine  came  down  and  slipped  into  the 
church,  apparently  unseen,  though  La  Teuse  had  seen  and 
understood.  She  urged  the  priest  to  come  with  her,  he  belonged 
to  her.  But  to  her  entreaties  he  replied  that  he  belonged  to  God, 
and  his  duty  kept  him  there.  She  asked  whether  he  was  de- 
ceiving her  when  he  took  her  for  his  wife ;  but  he  murmured  only, 
*'I  have  sinned."  She  recalled  to  him  their  happy  days  in  the 
garden,  their  love — in  vain;  he  remained  obdurate,  and  thrust 
her  forcibly  from  him.  As  she  went  she  told  him  that  every  day 
at  sunset  she  would  wait  for  him  at  the  breach  in  the  wall.  Li 
the  deserted,  silent  church  the  priest  sank  fainting  on  the  steps 
of  the  altar,  crying  aloud  that  he  did  love  her;  and,  feeling  that 
God  had  deserted  him,  he  rose,  exclaiming  that  He  did  not 
exist. 


330     THE  ABBfi  MOURET'S  TRANSGRESSION 

He  awoke  the  next  morning,  his  eyes  wet  with  tears,  re- 
solved to  go  to  Albine,  to  leave  the  countryside  with  her;  and  he 
tried  to  write  a  letter  commending  his  sister  to  Dr.  Pascal's  care. 
On  the  third  day  of  his  suffering  he  suddenly  went  off  to  Le 
Paradou,  quite  openly,  leaving  the  letter  unwritten.  At  the 
breach  he  found  Albine  and  told  her  that  he  loved  her  still.  To- 
gether they  revisited  the  forest  and  garden;  but  Serge  could  not 
feel  as  of  yore,  and  Albine  saw  it.  She  exclaimed  that  he  had 
lied  to  her;  that  he  did  not  love  her.  He  protested  that  he  did, 
and  they  planned  for  their  future  life  in  the  world,  their  family. 
But  suddenly  he  seemed  to  awake,  and  declared  that  he  could 
not  stay,  as  he  lay  shivering  at  Albine's  feet.  Then  she  bade 
him  come  with  her,  led  him  to  the  great  tree  in  the  charming 
glade,  and  flung  her  arms  about  him  in  a  wild  embrace.  But 
Serge  had  nothing  for  her  except  tears.  Standing  over  him, 
with  an  expression  of  scorn  and  determination,  she  bade  him 
begone  and,  driving  him  on  from  bush  to  bush  until  they  reached 
the  breach  in  the  wall,  she  made  him  go  forth,  then  plunged  into 
the  depths  of  Le  Paradou  and  vanished.  The  priest  had  stooped 
over  the  sleeping  Brother  Archangias  at  his  entrance.  Now  the 
brother  beheld  Albine's  action,  and  together  they  returned  to  the 
village. 

While  the  Abbe  Mouret,  kneeling  in  the  church,  dedicated 
himself  forever  to  the  Lord,  Albine  was  gathering  all  the  flowers 
that  autumn  had  left  in  Le  Paradou,  and,  heaping  them  up  in 
her  room,  she  lay  down  among  them  and  died  in  their  perfume. 
It  was  Dr.  Pascal  who  induced  old  Jeanbemat  to  allow  her  to 
receive  Christian  burial,  and  the  Abbe  Mouret,  erect,  pale,  gaz- 
ing fixedly  into  the  distance,  chanted  the  funeral  office  without  a 
quiver. 


I 


DRINK   (1877) 
(UAssommoir) 

This  novel,  one  of  the  most  powerful  works  of  Zola,  belongs  to  the  series 
called  The  Rougon-Macquart  Family,  a  natural  and  social  history  (or  narrative) 
of  a  family  under  the  Second  Empire,  There  is  no  mistaking  the  graphic 
power  of  this  tale,  and  probably  its  truth  to  fact,  while  its  nauseating  details  are 
repellent  to  the  refined  reader  and,  as  one  would  suppose,  would  hardly  be 
attractive  to  the  classes  he  so  faithfully  describes.  Notwithstanding  this  the 
sales  already  reach  upward  of  two  hundred  thousand  copies. 

ERVAISE  had  watched  for  the  return  of  Lantier 
until  two  in  the  morning,  leaning  out  of  the  open 
window  in  her  night-shift.  Thoroughly  chilled 
and  heart-broken,  she  threw  herself  across  the 
bed  and  sobbed  herself  to  sleep.  For  eight  nights 
Lantier  had  come  home  later,  alleging  that  he  was 
looking  for  work.  On  this  particular  night  she 
fancied  that  she  saw  him  enter  a  low  playhouse 
opposite,  sneaking  behind  a  certain  Virginie  who, 
with  her  sister  Adele,  occupied  a  room  above  that  of  Gervaise 
and  Lantier,  in  the  cheap  lodging-house  known  as  the  Hotel 
Boncceur,  in  the  Boulevard  de  la  Chapelle. 

Gervaise  awoke  at  five  o'clock  and  stationed  herself  again  at 
the  window,  while  her  two  little  boys,  Claude  and  Etienne,  eight 
and  four  respectively,  slept  on  unconscious  of  trouble,  their 
heads  on  the  same  pillow.  Then  she  watched  on  the  sidewalk 
below,  arousing  the  curious  interest  of  the  lodgers  and  the 
janitress  of  the  house,  who  asked  unpleasant  questions.  A 
laundry  woman,  kinder  than  some,  offered  her  employment  in 
her  establishment,  and  one  Coupeau,  a  fat,  ruddy  journeyman 
tinman,  indicated  a  sensuous  interest  in  her,  which  was  as  sym- 
pathetic as  his  gross  nature  was  capable  of  offering. 

At  eight  Lantier  returned,  a  short,  handsome,  dissipated, 
surly,  dark-complexioned  son  of  the  South  of  France,  twenty-six 

331 


332  DRINK 

years  old.  Gervaise,  on  the  other  hand,  was  a  large,  handsome 
blonde,  twenty-two  years  old,  slightly  lame  in  her  right  leg,  which 
did  not  detract  from  her  pleasing  features  and  easy-natured  dis- 
position. Her  faults  proceded  from  a  certain  weakness  of  will- 
power when  under  the  influence  of  the  designing,  while  Lan- 
tier's  proceeded  from  absolute,  heartless  selfishness  and  lack  of 
principle.  He  called  himself  a  socialist.  They  never  had  mar- 
ried, had  lived  together  eight  years,  and  had  two  boys,  a  fact 
that  did  not  seem  to  work  to  their  prejudice  in  the  circles  in  which 
they  moved,  whether  in  the  South  or  at  Paris,  whither  they  had 
migrated  when  Lantier  inherited  a  few  himdred  francs  from  his 
mother,  which,  it  is  needless  to  say,  the  man  had  quickly  ex- 
hausted. 

Lantier,  having  of  course  no  valid  excuse  for  his  absence, 
assumed  a  threatening  attitude  and  gave  the  woman  a  shaking, 
and  when  she  returned  from  pawning  a  few  ragged,  soiled  clothes 
for  five  francs,  to  procure  food,  he  put  the  money  in  his  pocket 
and  pretended  to  drop  into  a  deep  slumber.  Supposing  this  to 
be  genuine,  Gervaise  took  a  bundle  of  soiled  linen  to  the  laundry, 
telling  the  boys  not  to  wake  their  father. 

This  was  a  large  steam  laundry,  full  of  workwomen,  di- 
sheveled, barearmed,  with  legs  bare  to  the  knees,  who  were  aided 
by  several  sprightly,  saucy  youths  to  bring  them  soap  and  hot 
water.  The  odors  of  this  steaming  hall  were  not  inviting,  and 
the  shrill,  resonant  gabble  of  this  congregation  of  women  and 
girls  and  children  was  neither  intellectual  nor  instructive. 

Gervaise  was  busy  in  the  midst  of  this  hubbub  when  she 
recognized  Virginie,  who  was  a  virgin  only  in  name,  and  the  sup- 
posed rival  of  Gervaise  for  the  affections  of  the  estimable  Lan- 
tier. The  sight  of  her  was  too  much  for  the  deeply  wronged 
and  really  tender-hearted  Gervaise.  A  fierce  quarrel  instantly 
ensued,  and  epithets,  in  which  the  French  language  is  especially 
rich,  flew  thick  and  fast,  ending  in  a  hand-to-hand  conflict,  with 
blood  flowing  and  raiment  torn  to  tatters.  All  work  stopped, 
and  the  spectators  gathered  about  the  combatants,  taking  sides 
with  one  or  the  other,  and  aroused  to  the  highest  pitch  of  Gallic 
excitement.  Although  physically  the  weaker,  Gervaise  finally 
carried  the  day,  and  drove  her  rival  to  flight. 

On  returning  to  her  lodgings  she  found  that  Lantier^^  despite 


fiMILE  ZOLA  333 

the  fact  that  they  had  lived  together  many  years,  had  absconded 
with  his  trunk  and  what  few  articles  it  contained,  leaving  no 
message  behind.  Nine  or  ten  years  passed  before  Gervaise 
heard  a  word  about  him. 

Three  weeks  after  this  eventful  day  Gervaise  was  seated  with 
the  aforesaid  Coupeau  at  a  table  in  the  tippling-shop  of  one  P^re 
Colombe,  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Boulevard  de  la  Chapelle. 
They  were  taking  a  friendly  drink  together,  while  incidentally 
Coupeau  was  urging  his  buxom  vis-a-vis  to  give  an  affirmative 
answer  to  his  proposal  that  they  should  enter  the  holy  bonds  of 
matrimony.  The  scratches  she  had  received  in  the  battle  with 
Virginie  were  healed,  and  her  natural  beauty  was  enhanced,  or, 
as  one  might  say,  was  made  peculiarly  piquant  by  that  inscru- 
table, teasing  look  of  hesitation  a  woman  wears  when  she  declines 
to  accept  such  a  proposal,  while  thus  coaxing  a  man  on  to  be- 
come more  urgent,  when  she  knows  herself  well  enough  to  be 
aware  that  sooner  or  later,  either  through  weakness  or  liking, 
she  is  bound  to  surrender. 

It  is  not  unlikely  that  Coupeau,  through  urgency  and  tact, 
might  have  won  her,  with  her  boys  into  the  bargain,  without 
throwing  out  the  bait  of  a  formal  marriage.  For  a  woman  who 
has  lived  many  years  with  a  man  illegally  is  not  likely  to  be  over- 
scrupulous about  her  relations  with  the  next  man  she  essays. 
But  as,  in  his  urgency,  he  made  it  a  point  to  offer  marriage,  both 
civil  and  religious,  Gervaise  held  him  to  his  word.  She  settled 
the  matter  and  terminated  the  discussion  by  exclaiming,  as  if  she 
yielded  greatly  against  her  wishes :  "  Why  will  you  be  so  persist- 
ent?   Well,  then,  if  you  will  insist  upon  it — ^yes!" 

The  preliminary  visit  to  Monsieur  and  Madame  Lorilleux, 
the  sister  and  brother-in-law  of  Coupeau,  to  get  their  approval, 
as  it  were,  of  their  prospective  sister-in-law,  according  to  French 
custom,  was  exceedingly  farcical.  They  occupied  a  flat  under 
the  roof  of  a  six-story  tenement -house  occupied  by  a  vast  num- 
ber and  variety  of  tenants  living  in  every  degree  of  squalor  and 
amid  an  unspeakable  mingling  of  odors.  But  there  was  a  social 
scale  even  here,  and  the  Lorilleux  couple  affected  to  claim  an 
aristocratic  standing  because,  as  gold-beaters,  they  lived  in  an 
auriferous  atmosphere !  They  were  so  busy  they  could  snatch 
but  a  moment  each  to  take  a  glance  at  the  prospective  relative, 


334  DRINK 

and  so  lofty  they  barely  gave  her  the  tips  of  their  fingers.  And 
then,  with  two  or  three  cold  words  and  a  sneer  added  thereto, 
they  returned  to  their  toil. 

This  reception  was  not  satisfactory  to  Coupeau,  but  the  dis- 
gust of  himself  and  Gervaise  was  easily  dispelled  when,  a  few 
days  later,  the  Lorilleux  pair  agreed  to  attend  the  wedding  and 
to  pay  their  share,  to  the  tune  of  a  franc  or  two,  of  the  wedding 
dinner.  The  French  are  a  great  people  for  spectacular  functions, 
and  the  rigid  regulations  of  the  land  are  so  exacting  that  alto- 
gether it  is  a  great  and  costly  undertaking  to  marry  in  that 
country.  This  may  partly  explain  the  reason  why  so  many  there 
decide  to  waive  ceremony  and  simply  live  together  without  the 
sanction  of  mayor  or  priest. 

But  Coupeau  was  proud  of  Gervaise,  and  besides  had  prom- 
ised marriage,  so  married  they  were.  All  told,  they  formed  a 
party  of  twelve,  including  the  Lorilleux  and  some  of  the  choice 
spirits  that  frequented  Colombe's  wine-shop.  They  walked 
miles  that  day,  and  a  very  hot  day  it  was.  They  reached  the 
ofSce  for  the  civil  ceremony  late  and  had  to  wait  for  others  before 
them;  thus  they  were  late  at  the  church  where  they  were  due  on 
or  before  high  noon,  and  received  a  surly  growl  from  the  priest. 

This  over,  they  had  six  hours  to  wait  for  the  dinner  which 
was  ordered  in  another  part  of  the  city.  The  heat  was  intense ; 
what  to  do  with  themselves  they  knew  not.  Fortunately  for 
them  a  terrific  thunder-storm  came  up  and  forced  them  to  take 
refuge  in  a  wine-shop.  The  storm  slackened;  they  thought  it 
was  over,  and  ventured  out  again,  but  were  forced  to  run  for 
shelter  again,  and  took  refuge  for  an  hour  under  a  bridge.  They 
still  had  two  hours  to  wait,  and  went  into  the  galleries  of  the 
Louvre.  The  works  of  art  interested  them  as  much  as  a  winter 
sunset  would  interest  an  elephant.  The  party  being  shut  out 
from  the  art -galleries,  it  was  suggested  to  climb  to  the  top  of  the 
monument  in  the  Place  Vend6me,  by  the  narrow,  spiral,  inside 
stairway.  They  were  struck  with  consternation,  when  half-way 
up,  lest  Mother  Coupeau,  who  was  exceedingly  fat,  should  stick, 
and  be  able  neither  to  ascend  nor  descend,  which  would  be  bad 
for  those  above  her.  Some  of  the  ladies  also  cried  out  that  the 
gentlemen  were  tickling  them  instead  of  modestly  confining 
themselves  to  helping  them  to  climb.     Finally  they  all  got  up 


fiMILE   ZOLA  335 

and  then  down  safely,  and  having  smoothed  their  ruffled  plumes 
were  glad  the  hour  had  come  at  last  for  the  long-promised 
wedding  feast. 

The  entertainment  was  pronounced  fairly  good,  and  was 
accompanied  by  a  quantity  of  cheap  wine  and  enlivened  by  the 
usual  variety  of  doubles  entendres.  The  wine  touched  the  heads 
of  a  few  and  aroused  cries  that  the  gentlemen  were  taking  liber- 
ties, which  some  of  the  ladies  were  only  too  willing  to  allow,  and 
which  led  at  least  one  lady  to  throw  a  bottle  at  the  head  of  an- 
other lady!  Quiet  being  restored,  there  was  the  usual  squabble 
with  the  proprietor  of  the  restaurant.  The  gentlemen  then  paid 
for  their  shares,  and  Coupeau,  after  settling  everything,  found 
himself,  through  his  bibulous  generosity,  out  of  pocket  in  the 
enormous  sum  of  forty  francs  and  some  sous.  He  returned 
home  with  his  bride  having  less  than  one  franc  in  his  pocket. 

It  was  necessary  for  the  bride  and  groom  to  return  at  once 
to  the  laundry  and  the  tin-shop  to  raise  money.  But  for  some 
time  matters  passed  pleasantly  for  both,  and  by  careful  economy 
— for  Gervaise  was  a  good  worker  and  Coupeau  was  steady  now 
— ^they  laid  by  something  in  the  savings-bank.  They  had  two 
good  friends  in  Jean  Goujet  and  his  mother,  he  a  machinist  living 
at  home  a  reputable  life.  His  mother,  whom  he  honored,  was 
generous  and  helpful  to  those  who  were  steady,  industrious,  and 
honest. 

Thus  matters  went  on  until  one  day  Coupeau  fell  from  the 
roof  of  a  house  and  was  grievously  hurt.  For  months  he  was 
confined  to  his  bed.  Lying  so  long  idle,  Coupeau  lost  desire 
and  habit  to  work  as  he  grew  stronger,  and  wasted  time  and 
money  in  low  dissipation.  In  the  mean  time  money  was  grow- 
ing scarcer.  The  ambition  of  Gervaise  came  to  her  aid.  She 
longed  for  a  laundry  of  her  own  of  which  she  would  be  the  sole 
mistress.  After  long  search  they  fixed  on  a  lodging  of  three  or 
four  dark,  ill-smelling  rooms  on  the  ground  floor  of  the  tenement 
building  where  the  gold-beater  and  his  wife  lodged.  In  this 
respect  the  new  move  was  unfortunate.  It  is  rarely  prudent 
for  kinsfolk  to  live  under  the  same  roof,  and  under  the  present 
circumstances  it  was  a  decided  mistake.  But  the  Goujets, 
mother  and  son,  lent  them  five  hundred  francs  to  begin  their 
new  business  with,  and,  engaging  one  or  two  assistants,  Ger- 


336  DRINK 

vaise  was  able,  with  her  bright,  cheerful  face  and  manner  and 
her  industry,  to  win  custom  and  lay  up  money  again. 

But  Coupeau  was  a  perpetual  drag  on  his  wife.  A  good  part 
of  his  time  and  earnings  were  wasted  at  the  tap-room  or  assom- 
moir  of  Pbre  Colombe,  and  Nana,  the  daughter  of  Coupeau  and 
Gervaise,  between  the  toil  of  her  mother  and  the  shiftlessness  of 
her  father,  was  permitted  to  rim  wild  about  the  neighborhood. 
Happily  the  older  boy  had  been  adopted  by  relatives  in  the  coun- 
try and  was  out  of  harm's  way. 

Thus  matters  dragged  along  from  year  to  year,  with  no  im- 
provement, but  rather  a  gradual  tendency  toward  becoming 
worse.  Gervaise  herself  was  growing  stout,  work  came  less 
easily  for  her,  and  the  sensuous  side  of  her  nature  showed  itself 
in  a  growing  fondness  for  luxuries  of  the  table  which  she  could 
ill  afford.  She  continued  chaste  in  her  way,  and  true  to  her 
worthless  husband.  Still,  she  was  approaching  a  critical  period 
in  her  moral  nature,  and  her  standard  of  ethics  was  lowered  by 
all  she  saw  and  heard  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Boulevard 
Poissoniere. 

At  this  crisis  in  the  domestic  fortunes  of  the  Coupeau  family 
Gervaise  ran  across  Virginie,  whom  she  had  not  seen  for  years 
and  years.  Virginie  professed  great  joy  in  meeting  her  whilom 
foe,  saying  that  she  retained  no  ill-feeling,  for  it  was  quite  nat- 
ural that  Gervaise  should  feel  and  act  as  she  had  in  the  circum- 
stances. Before  they  separated  Virginie  said,  as  if  it  were  an 
afterthought,  that  Gervaise  might  be  interested  to  know  that 
she  had  recently  seen  Lantier,  who  was  looking  well  and  pros- 
perous. It  was  eight  or  nine  years  since  he  had  run  away  from 
his  paramour,  the  mother  of  their  two  boys. 

Gervaise  received  the  news  with  well-dissembled  indifference, 
saying  she  should  have  no  objection  to  meeting  again  one  who, 
of  course,  was  nothing  more  to  her  than  a  mere  casual  acquaint- 
ance. But  it  was  not  evident  to  Gervaise  that  in  this  matter 
Virginie  was  nursing  a  dark  plot  of  revenge  intended  to  work 
like  an  infernal  machine  set  to  a  slow  match — slow  but  annihi- 
lating in  its  results. 

One  evening  Lantier  appeared  at  the  lodging  of  the  Coupeau 
family;  he  was  quiet  and  even  showed  a  certain  bashfulness. 
Gervaise  received  him  in  a  manner  cold  but  not  unfriendly. 


fiMILE  ZOLA  337 

Coupeau  in  turn  actually  welcomed  him  with  warmth,  light- 
minded  as  he  was,  and  almost  as  if  this  one-time  lover  and  now 
dastardly  fugitive  from  the  duties  he  owed  to  his  sons  and  their 
mother  were  a  worthy  member  of  the  family. 

Lantier  came  often,  always  with  the  same  quiet  reserve,  as 
if  he  had  neither  done  any  wrong  nor  claimed  any  rights.  In 
his  effusiveness  Coupeau  finally  suggested  that  Lantier  become 
a  lodger,  paying  a  rental  slightly  lower  than  elsewhere,  a  plan 
advantageous  to  both  parties.  Gervaise  objected  that  they  had 
no  room  to  spare,  while  Lantier  urged  that  it  was  inexpedient, 
aside  from  the  fact  that  there  was  no  outer  door  to  the  room, 
and  an  exit  to  the  street  he  must  have.  Coupeau  overruled  all 
these  objections;  and  thus  Lantier  was  brought  once  more  into 
close  and  doubtful  relations.  But  he  showed  no  intention  for 
a  long  time  to  trespass  on  the  friendly  good  nature  of  Coupeau, 
while  Gervaise  conducted  herself  with  a  discretion  that  kept  her 
former  lover  at  a  distance. 

In  the  mean  time  Coupeau  was  daily  becoming  confirmed 
in  his  cups,  and  Lantier  ceased  to  make  any  payments  for  board 
and  lodging,  thus  being  a  pecuniary  burden  instead  of  a  help, 
as  was  hoped,  and  Gervaise  dreaded  a  quarrel  in  case  he  should 
resent  being  dunned.  But  one  evening,  when  she  was  unin- 
tentionally alone  with  him,  he  suddenly  seized  Gervaise  and 
attempted  the  boldest  familiarity.  She  resisted,  and  soon  some 
one  returned,  which  caused  him  to  desist.  A  few  days  later 
Lantier  invited  her  to  accompany  him  to  the  theater  when  Cou- 
peau was  on  a  spree.  When  they  returned  they  found  the  latter 
asleep  dead  drunk,  and  Nana  and  Mother  Coupeau  were  also 
asleep.  This  time  Lantier  urged  her  to  pass  the  night  with  him. 
Again  she  strongly  resisted,  but  finally  yielded  to  the  strange 
hypnotic  power  he  held  over  her. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  the  end.  Henceforth  Gervaise 
stayed  with  Coupeau  when  he  was  sober  and  with  Lantier  when 
her  husband  was  drunk,  until  Lantier  quietly  left  his  lodgings 
when  he  found  that,  as  the  earnings  of  the  Coupeau  family  de- 
creased, the  quantity  and  quality  of  their  meals  decreased  in 
proportion.  Lantier,  who  managed,  with  his  suave  manners, 
uniformly  neat  appearance,  and  singular  success  with  women, 
to  get  a  living  and  much  more  for  nothing,  now  persuaded  Vir- 

A.D.,   VOL.    XVn. — 22 


338  DRINK 

ginie  to  open  a  pastry  and  confectionery  shop,  and  contrived 
to  live  there  under  the  guise  of  head  clerk  and  partner,  champion 
boarder  and  accepted  lover,  with  all  that  that  implied  in  that  part 
of  Paris  under  the  Second  Empire. 

Not  long  after  these  events  the  elder  Madame  Coupeau  died, 
but  not  before  she  had  candidly  informed  Gervaise  of  what  she 
knew  of  her  doings  and  what  she  thought  of  her.  Gervaise  re- 
plied in  kind,  and  altogether  there  was  an  unusual  deathbed 
scene.  This  did  not  prevent  a  funeral  far  in  excess  of  what  the 
Coupeau  family  was  able  to  afford,  much  to  the  scandal  of  all 
the  gossips  gathered  to  witness  such  an  interesting  occasion, 
and  who  were  all  aware  of  the  pecuniary,  domestic,  and  moral 
standing  of  the  family  of  the  respected  deceased.  But  Ger- 
vaise to  a  distinct  fondness  for  pomp  and  ceremony  added  a 
firm  belief  in  the  maxim:  Noblesse  oblige. 

Nana,  a  remarkably  pretty  little  girl,  was  already  on  the 
rapid  downward  road  before  the  death  of  Madame  Coupeau, 
her  grandmother;  and  she  continued  on  this  path  until  she  en- 
tered into  intimate  relations  with  an  elderly  man  of  wealth. 

It  is  a  thoroughly  characteristic  illustration  of  the  pitiful 
state  into  which  Gervaise  had  fallen,  the  inextricable  tangle  of 
circumstances  that  was  hastening  her  doom,  the  cynical  destiny 
which  scorned  to  throw  a  ray  of  light,  of  comfort,  on  this  woman 
who  had  suffered  more  than  her  sins  of  ignorance  deserved,  that 
her  landlord,  with  pharisaical  sympathy  and  piety,  attended  the 
funeral  of  Madame  Coupeau.  He  entered  the  room  where  the 
corpse  was  laid  with  every  mark  of  deference,  and  burned 
candles  about  the  bed  of  the  defunct.  But  having  performed 
this  pious  duty,  and  just  before  entering  the  carriage  to  join  the 
procession  to  the  grave,  for  all  of  which  Gervaise  paid  with  her 
last  sou,  this  respectable  mourner  presented  her  with  a  formal 
written  dun  for  two  months'  back  rent,  failing  to  pay  which  she 
would  certainly  be  ejected  on  the  second  day  following. 

Some  acquaintances  among  the  bystanders  who  were  look- 
ing for  such  a  shop  at  once  stepped  forward,  took  the  lease  off 
her  hands,  and  assumed  the  debt,  but  this  apparent  benefit  also 
left  her  without  a  roof  over  her  head.  At  this  crisis  her  oldest 
boy,  Claude,  who,  as  will  be  remembered,  was  apprenticed  to 
some  people  in  the  country,  sent  her  ten  francs.    This  was  the 


fiMILE  ZOLA  339 

last  ray  of  sunshine  that  illumined  the  closing  days  of  poor  Ger- 
vaise.  She  actually  had  to  beg  on  her  knees;  on  one  dreadful 
occasion  Lantier  and  Lorilleux  and  his  wife,  chatting  and  eating 
together,  refused  to  give  her  even  a  sou  or  a  crumb,  and  laughed 
her  to  scorn. 

Coupeau,  the  valuable  husband  of  Gervaise,  died  in  a  hos- 
pital, a  sot  crazed  by  drink;  but  until  his  end  he  at  least  had 
food  and  shelter. 

Without  friends,  without  health  to  work,  without  hope  with 
which  to  toil,  broken  down  body  and  soul,  this  kind,  tender,  con- 
fiding, unselfish  unfortunate,  brought  up  in  an  atmosphere  of 
heartlessness,  ignorance,  and  vice,  of  struggle  and  temptation, 
at  last  gave  up  the  battle.  She  yielded  up  her  life  to  an  inscru- 
table destiny  common,  alas!  to  so  many  who  call  in  vain  to 
Heaven  for  succor,  and  have  a  right  to  demand  an  explanation 
for  the  martyrdom  of  so  many  untold  millions. 


A  PAGE   OF  LOVE    (1878) 
(Un  page  d' amour) 

This  book  is  one  of  the  famous  Rougon-Macquart  series  planned  by  the 
author  in  1868.  By  the  device  of  a  legitimate  and  illegitimate  branch,  the 
descendants  of  a  mentally  unsound  woman  are  gradually  spread  through  all  the 
strata  of  the  Second  Empire.  Zola  made  an  especial  study  of  the  laws  of 
heredity  in  writing  this  series,  the  book  by  Dr.  Lecas,  on  Natural  Heredity, 
proving  specially  valuable  to  him. 

^T  was  night,  and  Helena  was  sleeping  peacefully. 
Her  hands  were  crossed  in  repose,  and  her  breath- 
ing was  as  regular  as  that  of  a  child.  In  an  ad- 
joining alcove  slept  her  little  girl  Jeanne,  who 
was  about  eleven  years  old.  The  clock  struck 
one,  then  the  half -hour,  while  the  sleepers  re- 
mained undisturbed;  but  at  two  o'clock  a  sigh 
and  then  sounds  of  distress  issued  from  the  alcove. 
Helene  awakened  instantly,  and,  rushing  to 
the  alcove,  exclaimed  anxiously:  *' Jeanne!  what  is  the  matter?" 
but  receiving  no  reply,  she  was  horrified  at  finding  the  little  girl 
rigid  as  death,  her  head  twisted  on  one  side,  while  her  wide- 
open  eyes  stared  vacantly  in  space. 

"  My  God ! "  cried  the  mother,  "  she  is  dying.  My  poor  little 
one,  where  do  you  suffer?    Tell  me,  what  is  the  matter?" 

Still  receiving  no  reply,  and  thoroughly  alarmed,  she  hurried 
from  the  room,  crying : 

"Rosalie,  quick!  Call  a  doctor — my  child  is  dying." 
But  Rosalie  moved  so  slowly  that  Helene  in  her  anxiety  de- 
cided to  go  herself.  Slipping  on  a  petticoat,  throwing  a  shawl 
around  her  shoulders,  and  putting  on  her  slippers,  was  the  work 
of  a  few  moments.  She  was  soon  hurrying  through  the  snow, 
for  it  was  winter,  to  the  house  of  Dr.  Bodin,  who  usually  attended 
her  daughter.    Unfortunately,  he  had  been  called  for  on  an 

340 


fiMILE  ZOLA  341 

emergency  case,  and  in  despair  H^l^ne  retraced  her  steps  to  ask 
for  the  address  of  some  other  physician. 

The  maid  directed  her  to  a  Dr.  Deberle,  and  luckily  she 
found  him  at  home.  Hastily  dressing  in  answer  to  her  impera- 
tive summons,  without  even  taking  the  time  to  put  on  his 
collar  and  cravat,  he  accompanied  Helene  to  her  home. 

"You  must  think  me  foolish,"  she  said,  as  they  hurried  on 
their  way,  "but  my  child  is  dying,  and  you  must  know  how  a 
mother  feels  at  such  times.     Let  us  hurry,  I  beg  of  you." 

When  the  doctor  saw  Jeanne  he  reassured  the  mother,  saying 
there  was  nothing  to  worry  about.  All  the  child  needed  was 
air.  Helene  told  Rosalie  to  open  the  window,  then  she  lifted 
the  little  girl  in  her  arms  and  placed  her  on  her  own  bed  near  the 
window.  As  she  did  so,  the  poor  little  body  quivered  convul- 
sively, then  stiffened  again,  as  in  death.  As  the  twitching  move- 
ment returned.  Dr.  Deberle  said: 

"We  must  hold  her  hands  to  keep  her  from  hurting  herself; 
nothing  more  can  be  done  till  the  crisis  is  past." 

Thus,  during  the  long  hours  of  the  night,  the  two  lay,  one 
on  each  side  of  the  bed  with  the  child  between  them,  while  they 
watched  every  convulsive  movement. 

"Is  she  subject  to  these  attacks?"  the  doctor  asked,  and 
Helene  told  him  how  delicate  Jeanne  was.  She  had  been  sub- 
ject to  them  from  infancy  until  she  was  six  years  old.  This 
tendency  to  catalepsy  had  been  inherited,  but  Helene  avoided 
mentioning  the  fact  that  her  grandfather  was  in  an  insane 
asylum. 

Jeanne  was  now  sleeping  quietly,  and  her  face  had  resumed 
its  childlike  beauty. 

"This  time  it  is  all  over,"  said  the  doctor  gently,  and  made 
his  preparations  to  go.  Helene  asked  him  to  stay  a  little  longer, 
but  he  assured  her  everything  was  well  now. 

"Only,"  he  added  warningly,  "be  careful  that  she  has  a 
quiet,  happy  life,  without  care  or  worry  of  any  kind." 

"She  is  so  delicate,  so  nervous,"  replied  Hdene,  "I  cannot 
always  manage  her.  She  takes  her  joys  and  her  sorrows  so 
much  to  heart.  She  loves  me  so  passionately  that  she  nearly 
strangles  with  jealousy  if  I  caress  another  child." 

Seeing  the  doctor  was  interested,  she  told  him  more  and  more 


342  A   PAGE   OF  LOVE 

about  Jeanne,  finally  remarking  that  her  father  had  often  been 
ill,  but  that  she  herself  was  always  well. 

The  doctor,  who  at  her  urgent  request  had  again  resumed 
his  place  on  the  bed  beside  Jeanne,  looked  at  H^l^ne  as  she  said 
these  words.  He  had  hardly  noticed  her  before,  but  now  he 
raised  his  eyes,  and  could  not  help  smiling  at  her  last  remark, 
for  she  was  indeed  the  picture  of  health.  She  was  a  magnificent 
Juno  type  of  beauty,  her  profile  resembling  that  of  a  statue  as 
she  slowly  turned  her  head.  Her  gray  eyes  and  white  teeth 
brightened  her  expression  when  she  smiled.  Her  chin  was  firm 
and  round,  denoting  strength;  but  what  surprised  the  doctor 
most  was  the  superb  contour  of  her  neck  and  shoulders,  from 
which  the  shawl  had  slipped.  Over  her  shoulder  her  golden- 
brown  hair  fell  in  a  large  plait.  The  doctor  felt  strangely  moved 
at  the  display  of  Helene's  beauty. 

She  also  had  gazed  at  the  doctor  for  a  moment,  noting  his 
sharp  eyes,  thin  lips,  and  smooth-shaven  face.  She  surmised 
that  he  must  be  about  thirty-five  years  old.  Then  she  noticed 
the  absence  of  collar  and  cravat,  and  that  his  neck  was  bare. 
Helene  slowly  drew  her  shawl  around  her,  and  the  doctor,  as  if 
conscious  of  her  presence,  fastened  the  collar  of  his  shirt.  Thus 
the  two  remained  face  to  face,  while  the  child  slept  between  them. 

"Mamma!"  moaned  Jeanne  in  her  sleep.  Then  she  awoke, 
and  when  she  saw  the  doctor  she  was  worried. 

*'Who  is  he?"  she  asked. 

The  mother  kissed  her,  saying:  "Sleep,  little  one;  you  have 
been  ill.     He  is  a  friend." 

The  child  was  surprised,  for  she  could  not  remember  what 
had  happened.     Then  she  fell  asleep  again,  saying  tenderly: 

"  Good  night,  mother  dear.  If  he  is  your  friend,  he  shall  be 
mine." 

The  doctor  again  made  his  preparations  to  go,  bowed  silently, 
and  left  the  room.  Meanwhile  Helene  remained  beside  the 
child,  lost  in  thought,  while  the  light  from  the  lamp  paled  at  the 
approach  of  dawn. 

The  next  day  H^l^ne  wished  to  return  and  thank  the  doctor 
for  his  services,  but  when  she  remembered  the  long  night  they 
had  passed  together  with  Jeanne  she  felt  strangely  shy.  She 
saw  him  one  morning,  and  hid  like  a  child.     The  crisis  had  hap- 


.•^.^^ 


fiMILE  ZOLA  343 

pened  Tuesday  night,  and  it  was  Saturday  before  she  summoned 
courage  to  call  at  the  doctor's  home,  at  the  h6tel  in  the  next 
street.  The  footman  asked  her  name,  and  when  she  said  she 
was  Madame  Grandjean,  he  opened  the  door  of  the  drawing- 
room  and  announced  her,  most  impressively. 

She  noticed  that  the  room  was  occupied  by  a  young  lady 
seated  on  a  sofa,  in  conversation  with  an  elderly  woman  who  was 
apparently  calling.  Hd^ne  was  embarrassed,  and  remarked 
that  she  had  only  come  to  see  the  doctor. 

"Oh,  it  is  all  right,"  said  the  young  lady,  who  was  Madame 
Deberle,  the  doctor's  wife.  "The  doctor  is  not  here,  but  I 
am  very  pleased  to  see  you,  as  I  have  heard  about  you.  So  this 
is  the  little  girl  who  was  so  ill,  but  she  looks  well  now.  Sit  down, 
I  beg  of  you,"  and  Hdlene  accepted  the  invitation,  while  Jeanne 
timidly  perched  herself  on  the  edge  of  a  chair. 

As  Hdl^ne  glanced  around  the  room,  and  noticed  its  ornate 
blending  of  black  and  gold,  she  realized  what  a  fit  setting  it  made 
for  its  mistress.  Madame  Deberle  was  plump  and  petite,  with 
an  easy,  gracious  manner  which  won  many  friends.  Her  jet- 
black  hair  formed  a  marked  contrast  to  the  ivory  tint  of  her 
complexion,  whose  pallor  seemed  to  reflect  the  warm  tints  of  the 
sunlit  room.  Helene  and  she  were  soon  chatting  together  as  if 
they  had  known  each  other  for  years. 

Other  visitors  called,  and  Helene  made  a  move  to  go,  but 
Madame  Deberle  asked  her  to  remain  and  meet  her  sister  Paul- 
ine and  her  little  boy  Lucien,  who  was  seven  years  old.  Mean- 
while Jeanne  was  getting  very  restless,  so  Madame  Deberle  gave 
her  some  albums  to  look  at,  but  though  she  took  one  of  the  books 
she  continued  to  watch  her  mother  with  an  imploring  expression. 

Presently  a  Monsieur  Malignon  was  announced,  and  a  tall 
young  gentleman,  well  dressed  and  perfectly  at  his  ease  in  social 
bearing,  entered  the  room.  He  was  so  much  at  home  that  Ma- 
dame Deberle  did  not  even  rise  to  receive  him,  but  extended  her 
hand  in  greeting.  He  made  only  a  brief  call,  and  then  Pauline, 
a  pretty  girl  sixteen  years  old,  sister  to  Madame  Deberle,  came 
with  her  father. 

"  Good  morning,  Juliette,"  she  said,  as  she  kissed  her  sister. 

"Good  morning,  Pauline.  Good  morning,  father,"  Ma- 
dame Deberle  replied,  and  then  introduced  them  to  Helene. 


344  A   PAGE   OF  LOVE 

A  few  moments  later  little  Lucien  made  his  appearance, 
and  at  once  became  the  center  of  attraction.  His  mother  tried 
to  get  him  to  speak  to  Jeanne,  but  both  the  children  seemed  over- 
come with  shyness.  Jeanne  clutched  her  mother's  hand,  lower- 
ing her  head  so  that  Lucien  could  not  kiss  her. 

*' You  must  kiss  him  first,"  said  Madame  Deberle  to  Jeanne, 
laughing;  "the  ladies  must  always  make  the  first  advance  to 
him." 

"Kiss  him,  Jeanne,"  said  her  mother. 

The  child  looked  at  her  mother,  and  then  at  Lucien.  When 
she  saw  that  pathetic  little  figure  with  his  drooping  head  and 
embarrassed  air,  she  felt  sorry  for  the  child,  and,  with  an  ador- 
able smile,  she  answered: 

"  Willingly,  mother,"  and  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  she 
took  Lucien  by  the  shoulders  and  kissed  him  on  both  cheeks. 

"Ah!  that  is  right,"  said  those  who  had  urged  the  meeting, 
and  Helene,  bowing,  said  she  must  now  say  good-by,  and  again 
asked  Madame  Deberle  to  tell  the  doctor  how  grateful  she  was 
for  all  he  had  done  for  her. 

Juliette  held  Hdlene's  hand  in  hers  for  a  moment,  saying  with 
a  caressing  smile : 

"  You  must  come  again  soon,  for  I  have  taken  a  great  fancy 
to  you.     You  are  so  beautiful,  how  could  I  help  loving  you?  " 

Helene  laughed  gaily,  and  then  called  to  Jeanne,  who  was 
watching  Pauline  and  Lucien  playing  together. 

"You  will  always  be  good  friends  now,"  said  Madame 
Deberle,  "so  you  must  say  au  revoir^'^  and  the  two  children 
kissed  the  tips  of  their  fingers  to  each  other  in  a  parting  salute. 

Every  Tuesday  Helene  entertained  at  dinner  two  brothers — 
Monsieur  Rambaud  and  the  Abbe  Jouve.  They  were  the  only 
friends  she  had  welcomed  since  the  death  of  her  husband,  and 
their  weekly  visits  had  kept  her  from  growing  morbid.  Regu- 
larly at  seven  o'clock  the  brothers  made  their  appearance,  and 
Tuesday  evenings  became  a  veritable  institution.  Rosalie  en- 
tered into  the  spirit  of  the  occasion,  taking  special  care  in 
the  preparation  of  the  dinner,  and  Jeanne  looked  upon  M. 
Rambaud  as  a  playmate.  He  had  quite  a  genius  for  making 
mechanical  toys  and  mending  dolls  in  a  way  that  won  her  little 
heart. 


fiMILE   ZOLA  345 

After  a  while,  when  Hdl^ne  and  Juliette  became  intimate 
friends,  and  spent  many  hours  in  Juliette's  garden,  while  the 
children  played  together,  M.  Rambaud  was  often  invited 
to  join  the  charmed  circle.  One  afternoon  the  children  were 
swinging,  when  it  suddenly  occurred  to  Jeanne  that  she  would 
like  to  see  her  mother  take  a  turn.  M.  Rambaud  had  just 
made  his  appearance  on  the  scene,  and  Jeanne,  seeing  him, 
called  out: 

"He  will  swing  you,  mother." 

"Why,  certainly,"  said  M.  Rambaud;  "I  am  willing  if  you 
are.     When  one  is  in  the  country — " 

Helene  allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded,  and  as  she  swung 
higher  and  higher,  Jeanne  thought  she  looked  like  a  beautiful 
angel,  her  hair  reflecting  golden  tints  from  the  sunlight  and  re- 
sembling an  aureole. 

"  Oh,  mamma!"  said  Jeanne,  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight,  as  she 
watched  her  beautiful  mother,  whose  smiling  face  and  sparkling 
eyes  seemed  like  those  of  a  young  girl. 

Suddenly  Helene  called  to  M.  Rambaud  that  she  had 
had  enough.  The  fact  was,  she  had  seen  Dr.  Deberle  coming, 
and  her  smile  vanished.  She  became  aware  of  the  fact  that  he 
was  watching  her,  as  he  approached  his  wife,  and  without  wait- 
ing for  the  swing  to  stop  she  jumped  and  fell,  spraining  her 
ankle. 

"How  imprudent,"  said  the  doctor,  growing  pale,  and  has- 
tening to  help  her.  However,  Juliette  insisted  upon  having  her 
own  doctor,  and  when  he  arrived  he  carried  her  with  the  assist- 
ance of  M.  Rambaud  to  her  home.  When  the  latter  returned 
a  few  moments  later,  saying  that  it  was  only  a  sprain,  which 
would  keep  Helene  in  the  house  a  few  weeks.  Dr.  Deberle  said 
nothing,  but,  taking  Lucien  in  his  arms,  he  covered  him  with 
kisses. 

During  Helene's  enforced  rest  she  amused  herself  reading 
Ivanhoey  and  wondered  at  the  love-scenes  with  Rebecca.  She 
never  had  known  such  love  in  her  brief  married  life.  She  was 
only  seventeen  when  she  married,  and  her  husband  idolized  her; 
but  though  she  accepted  his  homage,  she  remained  calm  and 
indifferent.  What  did  it  all  mean  ?  Even  her  Rosalie,  who  was 
being  courted  by  a  soldier,  seemed  to  know  more  of  real  love 


346  A  PAGE   OF  LOVE 

than  she,  and  she  enjoyed  watching  the  happiness  of  this 
couple. 

As  soon  as  she  had  quite  recovered,  Juliette  urged  her  to  re- 
new the  pleasant  afternoons  in  the  garden,  and  she  accepted. 
Day  after  day  they  spent  together  in  this  way,  and  Juliette,  who 
loved  nothing  better  than  to  chatter  and  have  someone  listen  to 
her,  was  not  at  all  disturbed  if  the  whole  burden  of  the  conver- 
sation usually  devolved  on  herself.  Meanwhile,  Hdlene  was 
dreaming  and  drifting  along  pleasantly,  the  doctor  often  joining 
the  party  and  sharing  her  silence.  The  two  seemed  to  under- 
stand each  other  well,  though  not  a  word  had  been  spoken.  In- 
sensibly, Hdlene  found  herself  thinking  of  him  mentally  as 
"Henri,"  the  name  by  which  Juliette  called  him.  Was  this  love, 
she  wondered,  this  strange  feeling  that  stirred  within  her  when- 
ever she  saw  him,  as  he  came  near  her? 

Her  dream  was  rather  abruptly  disturbed  one  Tuesday  eve- 
ning, when  the  Abbe  Jouve,  who  had  suspected  the  true  state 
of  affairs,  suggested  to  H^lbne  that  she  ought  to  marry  again. 
When  he  mentioned  the  name  of  M.  Rambaud,  she  was  over- 
come with  surprise.  She  was  too  agitated  to  give  a  definite 
reply,  and  she  asked  for  time  to  consider  her  answer.  When 
Jeanne  realized  what  might  happen,  and  that  if  her  mother 
married  again  she  would  no  longer  have  the  j&rst  place  in  her 
heart,  she  took  a  violent  dislike  to  the  man. 

One  day  she  openly  expressed  her  feelings  on  the  subject, 
in  the  presence  of  Madame  Deberle  and  her  husband  and  some 
of  their  guests.  Madame  Deberle  had  planned  a  fancy-dress 
ball  to  be  given  in  honor  of  her  little  boy  Lucien.  His  costume 
was  to  be  that  of  a  marquise  of  the  time  of  Louis  XV.  When 
the  question  arose  as  to  Jeanne's  costume,  the  child  asked  her 
mother  not  to  tell.  In  fun  M.  Rambaud  teased  the  child,  pre- 
tending he  was  going  to  give  her  secret  away,  when  she  flew  into 
a  violent  temper,  and,  seizing  him  by  the  arm,  pinched  him 
with  all  her  strength.  Finally  H^l^ne  succeeded  in  quieting  the 
child,  who  then  threw  herself  on  a  bench  and  burst  into  tears. 

"What  is  the  matter,  little  one?"  asked  M.  Rambaud  ten- 
derly.    "What  have  I  done  to  you  to  make  you  angry?" 

"I  hate  you,"  she  replied,  "because  you  wish  to  take  my 
mother." 


fiMILE   ZOLA 


347 


"What  did  you  say?"  asked  M.  Rambaud,  not  quite  know- 
ing what  she  meant. 

"The  other  Tuesday,"  she  repHed.  "You  know  what  I 
mean,  when  you  took  me  on  your  knees  and  asked  me  whether 
you  could  always  play  with  me." 

Dr.  Deberle,  who  had  overheard  the  remark,  looked  serious, 
and  his  lips  quivered  with  suppressed  emotion.  M.  Rambaud's 
face  flushed,  and  he  said  in  a  low  voice : 

"  But  you  said  we  could  always  play  together." 

"No,  no,"  replied  the  child  fiercely.  "I  did  not  know  what 
you  meant.  Now  I  do  not  want  you  to  speak  of  it  again,  or  we 
shall  not  be  friends." 

"  Come  now,  Jeanne,"  said  her  mother,  who  had  been  saying 
good-by  to  Madame  Deberle,  and  only  heard  the  last  few  words, 
"when  you  cry  you  weary  everyone." 

Next  day,  while  Jeanne  and  her  mother  were  enjoying  the 
afternoon  in  the  garden  with  the  Deberles,  the  doctor  availed 
himself  of  a  favorable  opportunity  to  say  to  Helene : 

" So  you  are  going  to  be  married?"     . 

Totally  unprepared  for  the  question,  Hdlene  trembled  and 
grew  pale.  With  a  supreme  effort  she  forced  herself  to  look  in 
the  doctor's  eyes  and  calmly  answer  his  question. 

"Yes,  perhaps.    What  difference  does  it  make  to  you?" 

"But  it  is  impossible,"  he  said. 

"Why  is  it?"  she  replied,  still  looking  at  him. 

Feeling  too  overcome  to  reply,  the  doctor  withdrew, 
but  the  charm  of  the  afternoons  in  the  garden  had  van- 
ished. The  easy  famiHarity  and  perfect  confidence  became 
impossible.  Each  read  the  other's  mind.  Helene  knew  that 
the  doctor  loved  her,  and  that  he  was  aware  she  reciprocated 
his  love.  At  the  same  time  she  felt  ashamed  of  her  disloyalty 
to  Juliette. 

The  doctor  did  not  make  an  actual  avowal  of  his  love  until 
the  day  of  the  children's  party.  Helene  had  been  helping  Juli- 
ette to  amuse  the  children,  and  overcome  by  the  heat  of  the  room 
she  stood  at  the  door  a  moment  to  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air. 
Just  then  Henri  Deberle  approached  her  and  whispered:  "I 
love  you!    I  love  you!" 

Now  that  he  had  declared  himself,  she  could  no  longer  feign 


348  A  PAGE   OF  LOVE 

ignorance.  She  hid  her  face  behind  her  fan,  and  trembled  as  he 
repeated  the  words  over  and  over  again. 

**Oh!  leave  me,"  she  murmured  feebly;  "you  are  mad.  I 
cannot  listen  to  you." 

With  a  sudden  movement,  she  ran  into  an  adjoining  room, 
and  soon  afterward  hastened  home  without  waiting  for  Jeanne. 
The  little  girl  had  much  to  tell  her  mother  on  her  return;  but 
Hel^ne  heard  little,  for  she  was  dreaming  of  the  words  of  her 
lover. 

It  was  now  May,  and  although  Helene  was  not  a  devout  Cath- 
olic, yet  she  consented  to  accompany  Juliette  to  the  evening 
devotions  at  the  church.  Jeanne  insisted  upon  going  with  her, 
for  she  loved  the  flowers  and  incense,  and  the  statue  of  the  beau- 
tiful Virgin  Mary.  To  Juliette's  surprise.  Dr.  Deberle  also  ac- 
quired the  practise  of  coming  to  church,  for  the  avowed  purpose 
of  accompanying  them  home  after  the  close  of  the  service. 
Helene  had  seen  him  there,  and  knew  he  was  watching  her,  but 
she  pretended  indifference  to  the  fact. 

One  evening  when  Juliette  was  detained  from  coming,  as 
Dr.  Deberle  escorted  Helene  and  Jeanne  home,  they  were  fol- 
lowed by  an  old  woman  named  Madame  Fetu,  who  had  been 
placed  under  Helene's  care  by  the  Abbe  Jouve.  She  was  a 
chronic  grumbler,  and  begged  so  persistently  that  one  gave  her 
something  to  be  rid  of  her.  She  was  also  inclined  to  be  curious, 
and,  not  seeing  Juliette  with  the  doctor  and  Helene,  she  secretly 
wondered. 

"Is  the  other  lady  sick?"  she  asked  little  Jeanne. 

"No,"  the  child  replied,  astonished  at  the  question. 

"Ah,  Heaven  bless  the  dear  lady!  Let  us  say  an  Ave  to- 
gether for  her,  and  for  the  intention  of  your  dear  mother.  In 
the  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost." 

Not  long  afterward  Madame  Fetu  called  on  Helene,  asked 
for  a  pair  of  slippers,  and  incidentally  revealed  the  nefarious 
method  she  employed  to  eke  out  a  living.  Despite  the  fact  that 
she  lived  in  the  attic  of  a  dilapidated  house,  in  an  obscure  neigh- 
borhood of  Passy  (a  suburb  of  Paris),  she  had  rented  one  of 
her  rooms  to  a  young  gentleman. 

"Such  a  story,"  she  said,  as  she  watched  Helene  curiously 


fiMILE   ZOLA  349 

to  see  the  effect  of  her  words.  "  Imagine  a  young  man  in  good 
society  wanting  to  rent  a  room  from  me.  The  workmen  have 
been  decorating  it  for  two  weeks,  and  it  is  furnished  and  the 
draperies  are  pale  pink  cretonne.  Ah!  it  is  a  jewel!  Then  the 
neighborhood  is  so  quiet.  Not  a  carriage  comes  near  the  place, 
till  the  other  day  when  a  lady  called — ^your  friend  who  goes  to 
church  with  you.  I  opened  the  door,  as  there  is  no  porter,  and 
she  asked  for  Mr.  Vincent.  When  I  told  her  he  was  not  at  home, 
she  told  the  coachman  to  drive  on,  as  it  was  too  late." 

Thus  the  woman  gossiped,  and  her  eyes  twinkled  maliciously, 
as  she  saw  that  Helene  understood  her  only  too  well.  A  few^  days 
before  Helene  had  overheard  Malignon  whispering  to  Madame 
Deberle,  asking  her  to  meet  him  in  a  day  or  so,  at  three  o'clock. 

*'You  are  not  serious,"  Madame  Deberle  had  replied, 
smiling. 

"Never  more  so  in  my  life,"  he  had  answered  earnestly. 
"I  shall  wait  for  you,  you  know  where." 

When  Helene  took  the  slippers  to  Madame  Fetu,  she  was 
shown  the  pink  room,  and  was  horrified  to  find  that  part  of  the 
story  only  too  true.  Lately  Dr.  Deberle  had  again  rescued  her 
little  girl  from  an  attack  of  catalepsy,  and  Helene,  overcome 
with  gratitude,  had  been  able  to  conceal  her  love  for  him  no 
longer.  Throwing  her  arms  around  his  neck,  she  had  avowed 
her  love. 

Now  that  he  was  threatened  with  trouble,  her  love  for  him 
made  her  long  to  warn  him  of  the  perfidy  of  Malignon.  She 
decided  to  write  him  an  anonymous  letter,  asking  him  to  go  to  a 
certain  house  at  a  certain  hour,  without  giving  any  explanation 
for  this  deed.  As  an  afterthought,  she  called  on  Madame  De- 
berle, intending  to  warn  her  not  to  go  to  Madame  Fetu's  house, 
but  the  latter  treated  her  so  coldly  that  she  lacked  courage.  On 
her  way  home  she  dropped  the  letter  in  the  mail-box,  calcula- 
ting that  the  doctor  would  receive  it  just  in  time. 

When  the  letter  disappeared  in  the  box,  Helene  was  afraid. 
She  recoiled  with  horror  at  the  thought  of  the  result,  and  in  a 
frenzy  of  terror  decided  to  avert  the  evil  as  best  she  could.  She 
must  reach  the  rendezvous  before  the  doctor,  and  warn  Juliette 
that  the  doctor  was  coming.  When  the  time  came  for  her  to  go, 
Jeanne  begged  to  accompany  her.     For  the  first  time  in  her  life, 


350  A  PAGE   OF  LOVE 

H^l^ne  lost  patience  with  the  child,  and  pushing  her  violently 
from  her,  she  exclaimed : 

*'What  a  tiresome  child  you  are!  You  are  a  positive  trial! 
If  you  cry  now,  I  shall  make  you  sorry  for  it  later." 

Then,  going  away,  she  banged  the  door  behind  her  and  left 
poor  little  Jeanne  alone.  The  child  held  out  her  arms  beseech- 
ingly toward  the  door,  crying,  ** Mamma!  mamma!"  Thus 
she  remained  for  some  time,  then,  as  her  mother  did  not  return, 
her  face  became  convulsed  with  anger  and  jealousy,  for  she 
realized  that  Hel^ne  no  longer  loved  her  best.  During  the  long 
hours  till  her  mother  returned  at  seven  o'clock,  Jeanne  grieved, 
with  only  her  doll  to  comfort  her.  She  then  amused  herself 
opening  the  window,  and  watching  a  rain-storm  that  was  pass- 
ing over  the  city  of  Paris  in  the  distance.  Even  Rosalie  had 
forgotten  the  child,  in  the  excitement  of  an  unexpected  visit  from 
her  soldier  sweetheart.  When  Helene  finally  returned  home 
she  found  her  little  girl  asleep  at  the  open  window,  and  chilled 
to  an  extent  that  resulted  seriously. 

Meanwhile  Helene  had  indeed  succeeded  in  warning  the 
guilty  couple  in  time,  but,  alas!  she  herself  had  become  en- 
tangled in  the  net  they  had  woven.  Hardly  had  Juliette  and 
Malignon  departed,  when  Dr.  Deberle  made  his  appearance. 
Supposing  Helene  had  written  the  note  with  the  purpose  of 
meeting  him  herself,  his  joy  at  seeing  her  was  unrestrained.  He 
overwhelmed  her  with  entreaties  to  remain,  and,  exhausted  by 
the  strain  through  which  she  had  just  passed,  she  was  too  weak 
to  resist,  and  yielded  to  his  love. 

When  she  returned  home  several  hours  later,  and  found  how 
her  little  girl  had  suffered,  she  was  filled  with  remorse.  During 
the  long  hours  while  she  tried  to  save  Jeanne  from  the  effects  of 
the  cold  and  exposure  at  the  open  window,  her  heart  seemed 
dead  within  her.  Dr.  Deberle  came  to  see  the  child,  but  she 
was  seized  with  a  paroxysm  of  anger  when  he  came  near  her. 
She  was  violently  jealous  of  him;  she  shrewdly  surmised  he  had 
been  the  cause  of  the  estrangement  between  her  mother  and 
herself.  Though  he  continued  to  call  daily,  to  inquire  with  re- 
gard to  Jeanne's  welfare,  he  was  refused  admittance.  At  the 
end  of  three  weeks  Jeanne's  long  agony  was  ended,  and  she 
breathed  her  last.     Helene  heard  Dr.  Deberle  say  to  Rosalie, 


fiMILE   ZOLA  351 

when  he  called  to  make  his  usual  inquiries  and  heard  the  sad 
news:  "Great  heavens,  what  a  misfortune!    Poor  little  girl!" 

These  were  the  only  words  he  could  think  of,  for  he  was  so 
overwhelmed  with  sorrow  that  he  hardly  knew  what  he  was  say- 
ing. The  door  closed,  and  he  left  the  house,  passing  out  of 
Helene's  life  forever.  He  had  helped  her  to  cause  the  child^s 
death,  and  she  could  neither  forget  nor  forgive. 

What  grieved  Hdlene  most  in  her  loss  was  the  thought  that 
Jeanne  never  had  ceased  to  resent  her  harshness  and  neglect. 
In  death  as  in  life,  the  mask  of  jealousy  disguised  the  beauty  of 
her  face,  and  the  mother  groaned  in  unavailing  remorse. 

Her  constant  friend  in  this  hour  of  sorrow  was  M.  Rambaud, 
who  had  indeed  befriended  both  mother  and  child.  In  the 
last  few  weeks  of  her  sad  life,  Jeanne  had  learned  to  love  him 
again.  When  her  mother  left  her  day  after  day  alone,  while  she 
sought  Henri  Deberle,  he  had  shared  her  loneliness  with  her. 

After  her  death,  M.  Rambaud  remained  devotedly  attached 
to  Helene,  and  two  years  later  he  renewed  his  offer  to  marry  her. 
There  was  no  reason  for  refusing  him  now,  he  urged.  The  sea- 
son of  mourning  for  Jeanne  was  over,  Henri  Deberle  had  passed 
out  of  her  life  forever,  so  Helene  accepted  him. 

They  were  married  in  November,  but  before  they  left  Passy 
for  their  new  home  at  Marseilles  they  made  a  farewell  visit  to 
Jeanne's  grave.  Helene  knelt  there  in  the  snow,  praying  with 
bowed  head,  and  hardly  conscious  of  the  cold.  Then  her  hus- 
band came  to  her,  and  in  silence  they  left  the  cemetery  together, 
the  footprints  in  the  snow  being  the  only  record  of  their  visit. 
Thus  Jeanne  was  left  alone,  in  sight  of  Paris,  forever. 


NANA   (1881) 

This  story  forms  the  ninth  volume  of  the  famous  Rougon-Macquart  Series. 
It  is,  in  fact,  closely  associated  with  the  volume  entitled  UAssommoir  (usually 
called  in  English  Drink).  The  latter  contains  a  description  of  the  death  of 
Coupeau,  the  drunkard,  to  whom  Nana  was  related.  She  inherited,  through 
three  or  four  generations  of  drunkards,  the  evil  effects  of  this  taint,  and  it  resulted 
in  misery  and  corruption.  The  book  has  been  translated  into  many  European 
languages,  but  has  not  been  dramatized.  Like  other  books  in  this  series.  Nana 
is  founded  largely  on  documentary  evidence,  obtained  from  the  police  records 
of  Paris. 


RE  AT  excitement  prevailed  in  Paris,  owing  to 
the  fact  that  the  first  performance  of  The  Blonde 
Venus  was  to  be  given  at  the  Varietes.  Nana,  an 
actress  hitherto  unknown  on  the  stage,  was  to  as- 
sume the  part  of  Venus.  The  great  theatrical 
manager  Bordenave  had  discovered  the  new  star, 
and  to  all  inquiries  concerning  her  his  usual  reply 
was:  "Wait  and  see!  She  has  only  to  come  on 
the  stage  and  all  Paris  will  go  wild  over  her." 
His  words  came  true,  for  from  the  moment  Nana  advanced 
quietly  to  the  footlights  and  smiled  at  her  audience  she  won 
their  hearts.  Attired  in  diaphanous  white,  with  a  wealth  of  gold- 
en hair  falling  loosely  over  her  shoulders,  the  charm  of  her 
youthful  beauty — for  she  was  only  eighteen  years — ^was  unde- 
niable. On  the  other  hand  she  was  somewhat  awkward,  and 
when  she  sang  her  voice  was  shrill  and  out  of  tune.  Derisive 
whistling  could  be  heard  from  the  gallery,  which  was  instantly 
hushed,  however,  when  a  young  enthusiast  exclaimed  aloud: 
"Very  chic." 

Everyone  turned  to  see  who  had  spoken.  It  was  Georges 
Hugon,  "the  cherub,"  as  he  was  called,  who  was  just  out  of 
college.  He  was  only  seventeen  years  of  age,  and  this  was  his 
first  experience  of  the  kind.  His  eyes  sparkled  and  his  face 
glowed  with  enthusiasm  at  the  sight  of  Nana.    When  he  saw 

352 


L 


fiMILE  ZOLA  353 

everyone  looking  at  him  he  blushed,  and  still  more  so  when 
his  neighbor  Daguenet  smiled.  Then  the  people  around  him 
laughed,  while  many  applauded,  saying:  ** Bravo!  well  done!'' 

Meanwhile, Nana, seeing  that  everyone  was  laughing, laughed 
with  them,  and  thereby  won  the  critics.  "At  any  rate,  the  girl 
is  amusing,"  they  averred,  and  they  could  not  but  acknowledge 
that  her  laugh  was  infectious.  For  a  moment  Nana  looked  at 
the  audience  as  if  to  say:  "I  know  I  am  not  an  actress,  but  what 
does  that  matter?"  Then,  with  a  significant  look  at  the  leader 
of  the  orchestra,  which  meant  "Go  on!"  she  began  the  second 
couplet. 

This  she  sang  even  worse  than  the  first,  but  her  beauty  had 
taken  such  a  hold  on  her  auditors  that  they  felt  thrilled.  When 
her  voice  gave  out  before  the  end  of  the  couplet  she  extended  her 
arms  as  if  asking  for  indulgence,  and  the  theater  resounded  with 
applause. 

But  the  climax  of  her  daring  was  reached  in  the  third  act, 
when  she  appeared  on  the  stage  enveloped  in  a  transparent 
gauze  veil.  The  graceful  outlines  of  her  statuesque  figure  were 
closely  revealed,  as  she  personified  Venus  rising  from  the  waves. 
There  was  no  applause  at  first.  No  one  laughed,  and  in  fact 
a  deathly  silence  reigned  in  the  theater.  Yet  Nana  smiled,  with 
expressive  red  lips,  while  her  large  blue  eyes  brightened. 

Finally  came  a  murmur  of  applause  which  swelled  in  volume, 
an  intermittent  clapping  of  hands,  and  little  by  little  Nana  took 
possession  of  her  audience,  which  slowly  yielded  to  her  charms. 

After  the  performance,  the  name  of  Nana  was  on  every 
tongue;  it  resounded  from  orchestra  to  roof;  her  reign  as  a  star 
was  assured.  Fauchery,  a  leading  journalist,  pronounced  her 
a  success.  Before  him  he  saw  yoimg  Hugon  overcome  with 
emotion;  near  by  a  rich  banker  named  Steiner  seemed  enthralled; 
and  the  scene  in  the  box  occupied  by  the  Muffat  family  was  the 
most  surprising  of  all.  Countess  Muffat  de  Beuville  looked 
pale  and  serious;  behind  her  chair  stood  the  Count  staring  at 
Nana  with  wide-open  eyes  and  mouth,  and  in  the  background 
the  eyes  of  the  Marquis  de  Chouard  glowed  like  those  of  a  cat. 
They  were  like  two  sparks  of  gold-dust  outlined  in  the  shadow. 
And  Nana,  facing  the  audience,  knew  she  had  scored  a  victory 
and  that  her  success  was  accomplished. 
A.D.,  VOL.  xvn. — 23 


3S4  NANA 

Fauchery,  who  was  sitting  with  his  cousin,  Hector  de  la 
Faloise,  pointed  out  to  him  the  various  critics  representing  the 
press  who  had  come  to  write  up  the  new  play.  As  he  was  speak- 
ing he  was  surprised  to  see  Faloise  bowing  to  someone  in  the 
Muffat  box. 

''What!  do  you  know  Count  Muffat  de  Beuville?" 

"  I  have  known  him  for  some  time,"  Faloise  answered.  "  The 
family  has  property  near  ours  and  I  often  visit  them.  Come 
with  me  and  let  me  introduce  you  to  them.  The  Count ^s  father- 
in-law,  the  Marquis  de  Chouard,  is  a  State  Councilor,  and  has 
been  named  chamberlain  to  the  Empress." 

Faloise  presented  his  cousin,  who  obtained  at  the  same  time 
an  invitation  to  attend  the  reception  held  every  Tuesday  at  the 
Muffat  home. 

Consequently  on  the  following  Tuesday  Fauchery  found 
himself  among  the  guests  of  the  Countess  de  Sabine,  as  she  was 
called  to  distinguish  her  from  the  Count^s  mother,  who  had  died 
the  preceding  year.  The  drawing-room  with  its  massive  ma- 
hogany furniture  seemed  gloomy  and  oppressive.  It  exhaled 
the  odor  of  a  church,  somewhat  accentuated  by  the  ever-present 
Monsieur  Venot,  a  Jesuit.  He  seemed  to  dominate  everyone, 
despite  his  insignificant  personality  and  his  age — for  he  was  at 
least  sixty  years  old.  His  smile  was  shrewd,  his  eyes  were  keen 
and  piercing,  and  it  was  noticeable  that  while  apparently  listen- 
ing to  everyone  he  hardly  spoke  a  word  himself. 

He  ruled  this  household  with  an  iron  hand,  a  mere  look  being 
sufficient  to  accomplish  his  purpose.  For  instance,  Fauchery 
and  some  of  his  intimate  friends  had  passed  the  word  around 
that  Nana  had  planned  a  supper  at  midnight  to  celebrate  her 
success.  The  Coimt  was  among  the  invited  guests,  but  just 
as  he  was  about  to  accept  he  caught  a  look  of  warning  in  the  eyes 
of  M.  Venot,  and  instantly  declined. 

One  could  easily  see  that  the  Countess  was  dominated  by 
this  same  influence,  and  unobserved  Fauchery  made  a  careful 
study  of  her  personality.  Despite  her  youthful  looks  and  bright 
eyes,  she  seemed  unusually  serious.  She  had  married  while 
very  young,  after  the  death  of  her  mother,  and  possibly  at  the 
suggestion  of  her  father,  the  Marquis  de  Chouard.  Strange 
stories  were  told  about  him,  despite  his  seeming  piety.    A  snake 


fiMILE  ZOLA  355 

beneath  the  semblance  of  a  saint,  he  inspired  a  feeling  of  dread. 
Fauchery  asked  the  Countess  whether  he  should  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  meeting  the  Marquis  that  evening,  but  she  replied  that 
her  father  would  come  later  as  he  was  busy  just  then.  The 
journalist,  who  shrewdly  guessed  how  the  Marquis  spent  his 
evenings,  remained  silent,  and  the  Countess  changed  the  con- 
versation by  remarking: 

^*I  have  always  wished  to  know  Queen  Augusta.  I  have 
been  told  she  is  very  good  and  pious.'' 

It  was  sufficient  to  see  her,  near  her  daughter  Estelle,  who 
was  awkwardly  perched  on  a  footstool,  to  realize  that  the 
Countess  herself  was  a  good  and  pious  woman.  Yet  Fauchery 
had  his  doubts.  He  now  turned  his  attention  to  Madame 
Hugon,  the  mother  of  ^'the  cherub''  who  had  sung  the  praises 
of  Nana  at  her  debut. 

*'  Last  night,"  she  was  saying,  "  Georges  made  me  go  to  the 
Varietes,  where  I  have  not  been  for  ten  years.  I  was  not  very 
much  amused,  but  it  made  him  happy.  What  singular  plays 
they  have  nowadays?     I  must  say  I  do  not  care  much  for  music." 

"You  do  not  care  for  music!"  remarked  one  of  the  guests, 
raising  her  eyes  to  the  ceiling  in  affected  surprise.  "Can  it  be 
possible?" 

Everyone  joined  in  the  conversation,  which  now  became 
general.  Not  a  word  was  said  about  Nana,  but  the  merits 
of  different  musicians  were  compared.  The  soft,  languishing 
voices  of  the  ladies  sounded  like  the  intoning  of  a  chant  in 
church.  Fauchery  wearied  of  it  and  suggested  to  his  cousin  that 
they  should  take  their  departure. 

To  return  to  Nana:  The  day  after  the  performance  of  The 
Blonde  Venus  her  maid,  Zoe,  was  kept  busy  receiving  messages 
and  ushering  in  visitors  who  wished  to  see  the  newly  discovered 
actress.  Such  distinguished  personages  as  the  Marquis  de 
Chouard  and  Count  Muffat  de  Beuville  were  numbered  among 
the  callers.  Their  pretext  for  intruding  was  a  request  for  money 
in  behalf  of  a  charitable  project,  but  Nana  saw  through  their 
schemes. 

She  responded  readily  to  their  demand  and  smiled  ingenu- 
ously at  the  diplomats  as  they  took  their  departure.  Count 
Muffat  bowed  deferentially,  smiling  faintly,  and  seemingly  ill 


3S6  NANA 

at  ease.  He  was  followed  by  the  Marquis  de  Chouard,  who, 
realizing  that  he  was  unseen  by  his  son-in-law,  winked  slyly  at 
Nana. 

M.  Steiner,  a  rich  banker,  next  requested  an  interview, 
but  Nana  told  Zoe  to  dismiss  him,  as  she  said  he  wearied 
her.  The  plea  that  he  was  rich  was  of  no  avail,  for  she  knew 
he  was  ready  to  respond  to  her  beck  and  call.  When  the  banker 
had  gone  Nana  looked  in  every  room  to  see  that  there  were  no 
more  intruders.  Feeling  assured  that  she  was  alone  she  gave  a 
sigh  of  relief,  when  to  her  surprise  she  came  upon  Georges 
Hugon,  "the  cherub,"  seated  on  top  of  a  trunk,  looking  very 
youthful  and  conscious,  while  he  held  an  enormous  bouquet  on 
his  knee. 

The  moment  he  saw  Nana  he  jumped  to  the  groimd,  blush- 
ing furiously,  while  he  nervously  passed  the  bouquet  from  one 
hand  to  another.  His  extreme  youth  and  the  amusing  expression 
on  his  face  proved  too  much  for  Nana,  and  she  laughed  aloud. 
She  treated  him  as  a  little  boy,  asking  him  his  name,  how  old 
he  was,  and  whether  the  flowers  were  for  her.  Then,  despite  his 
urgent  entreaties  to  remain,  she  led  him  gently  to  the  door, 
bidding  him  farewell. 

"Such  a  boy!"  she  murmured  to  herself,  for  she  had  a  warm 
feeling  in  her  heart  for  children.  Indeed,  she  had  a  baby  girl 
of  her  own  named  Louise,  the  name  of  whose  father  Nana  kept 
secret.  The  child  was  placed  in  care  of  her  aunt,  Madame 
Lerat,  being  alternately  fondled  and  neglected.  Her  feeble 
constitution  could  not  survive  this  treatment,  and  she  died  a 
pitiable  death  a  few  years  later  while  still  a  child. 

There  seemed  to  be  a  strange  fatality  in  connection  with  all 
who  came  in  contact  with  Nana.  Like  a  gilded  butterfly,  after 
fluttering  for  some  time  in  the  atmosphere  tainted  by  the  dregs 
of  Parisian  society,  her  wings  drooped  in  the  pest-stricken  air. 
She  sank  deeper  and  deeper  in  the  mire  of  vice  till  the  reached 
the  level  of  the  lowest  degradation.  In  her  downfall  she  dragged 
others  with  her,  causing  the  financial  ruin  of  the  rich  banker 
Steiner;  the  imprisonment  of  Philip,  a  brother  of  Georges  Hugon, 
who  had  misappropriated  army  funds  for  the  purchase  of  gifts 
for  Nana;  breaking  up  the  peace  of  Count  Muffat's  home  and 
ruining  his  life  by  her  perfidy. 


fiMILE   ZOLA  357 

Despite  the  supervision  of  M.  Venot,  Count  MufTat  had 
succumbed  absolutely  to  her  charms.  He  squandered  wealth 
untold  on  her  and  spent  a  fortune  in  satisfying  her  capri- 
cious whims.  When  he  occasionally  doubted  her  loyalty  to 
him  she  would  swear  on  the  head  of  her  child  Louise  that  she 
was  true,  and  he  accepted  her  word.  One  evening,  however, 
when  he  made  an  unexpected  call,  he  found  her  embracing 
Georges  Hugon,  but  she  pacified  him  by  explaining  that  she 
was  trying  to  appease  the  boy,  who  was  jealous  on  account  of 
the  visits  of  his  brother  Philip.  This  was  before  the  latter  had 
been  imprisoned  for  appropriating  army  funds. 

When  that  took  place  Madame  Hugon  was  broken-hearted. 
She  decided  to  go  to  see  Nana  and  plead  with  her,  now  that  she 
had  caused  Philip  to  come  to  grief,  to  leave  her  son  Georges 
alone.  The  day  she  planned  to  make  the  call  Georges  also 
had  endeavored  to  obtain  an  interview  with  Nana.  The  latter 
chatted  with  him  for  a  while,  and  then  said  she  had  to  go  out 
to  pay  some  bills. 

Laughing,  she  kissed  him  on  the  forehead,  saying:  ''Adieu, 
baby;  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  marry  you" — for  that  had  been 
his  request — ^"and  now  I  must  run  away." 

But  Georges  was  not  so  easily  dismissed.  He  was  very 
deeply  in  earnest  and  decided  to  await  her  return.  Her  words 
still  rang  in  his  ears  and  he  seemed  stupefied.  He  was  deter- 
mined to  see  her  again,  and  then  an  evil  thought  came  into  his 
mind.  "  If  she  refuses  me  I  shall  kill  myself ."  Going  into  her 
bedroom,  he  found  a  sharp-pointed  pair  of  scissors.  He  slipped 
them  into  his  pocket  and  returned  to  the  drawing-room.  There 
he  waited  for  an  hour,  while  nervously  fingering  the  scissors. 
Presently  Zoe  came  into  the  room,  and  seeing  him  there  advised 
him  to  escape  by  the  window,  as  Madame  was  returning.  But 
he  was  determined  to  await  Nana,  who  was  a  trifle  vexed  when 
she  saw  him. 

*'  How  is  this  ?  "  she  exclaimed  sharply.  "  I  shall  have  to  scold 
you,  you  tiresome  boy!" 

He  did  not  speak,  but  followed  her  deliberately  as  she  went 
to  her  room  to  take  off  her  wraps. 

''Nana,  will  you  marry  me?"  he  asked. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  did  not  even  take  the  trouble 


358  NANA 

to  answer  him.  It  was  too  ridiculous.  Her  idea  was  to  shut 
the  door  in  his  face.  Before  she  reached  it,  he  again  asked  her 
to  marry  him. 

Overcome  with  impatience,  she  shut  the  door,  hoping  he 
would  leave  her  in  peace.  But  with  one  hand  he  opened  it 
again  and  with  the  other  he  stabbed  himself  with  the  scissors. 

Nana,  feeling  that  something  was  about  to  happen,  turned 
round  just  at  that  moment  and  was  furious  with  indignation 
when  she  saw  that  he  had  wounded  himself. 

**How  horrid  of  you!"  she  exclaimed.  "And  with  my  scis- 
sors, too!  Will  you  stop  being  so  foolish,  you  naughty  boy? 
Great  heavens,  what  have  you  done  now?" 

She  was  terrified,  for  the  boy,  falling  on  his  knees,  had 
stabbed  himself  again  and  now  lay  across  the  threshold  of  the 
door.  When  Nana  realized  that  she  could  not  get  out  of  the 
room  without  stepping  over  the  body  she  lost  her  head. 

"Zoe!  Zoe!"  she  screamed.  "Come  and  keep  the  child 
from  killing  himself.  It  is  ridiculous  for  him  to  act  in  this  way, 
and  here  in  my  home." 

She  was  frightened  when  she  looked  at  Georges.  He  was 
very  white  and  his  eyes  were  closed.  A  few  drops  of  blood  were 
trickling  over  his  waistcoat.  Nana  could  not  endure  the  sight 
any  longer,  and  she  had  just  made  up  her  mind  to  step  over  the 
body  when  she  saw  a  sight  that  froze  the  blood  in  her  veins. 

Madame  Hugon  was  slowly  approaching  the  door,  having 
just  arrived  that  moment  on  her  mission  to  implore  the  mercy 
of  Nana  in  behalf  of  her  son  Georges. 

Nana  recoiled  in  horror,  and  pointing  to  the  body  at  her  feet 
exclaimed  in  trembling  accents : 

"Madame,  it  is  not  my  fault.  I  did  not  do  it,  I  swear  to 
you!" 

Madame  Hugon  was  speechless  at  the  sight.  On  the  way 
to  see  Nana  she  had  hoped  to  induce  her  to  plead  with  the  judges 
in  behalf  of  her  son  Philip,  to  give  them  some  idea  of  how  he 
had  squandered  the  money  in  a  moment  of  weakness,  and 
to  say  that  she  herself  was  partly  to  blame.  Just  as  she  was 
mounting  the  staircase  to  Nana's  apartments  she  heard  a 
scream,  and  now  the  bleeding  body  of  Georges,  her  other  son, 
lay  before  her. 


fiMILE   ZOLA  359 

Nana  repeated,  in  the  tone  of  an  imbecile:  "He  wanted  to 
marry  me.     I  said  no,  and  he  killed  himself." 

Without  a  cry,  Madame  Hugon  kissed  her  boy.  Yes,  it  was 
her  Georges.  One  boy  dishonored,  the  other  assassinated! 
She  was  not  surprised;  it  was  almost  to  be  expected  under  the 
circumstances.  Kneeling  on  the  floor,  ignoring  all  her  sur- 
roundings, she  gazed  on  the  pale  face  of  her  son.  Then  she 
listened,  placing  one  hand  on  his  heart.  She  felt  it  beating,  and 
gave  a  feeble  sigh  of  relief. 

She  slowly  raised  her  head,  looking  around  the  room,  and 
then  at  the  woman  who  stood  trembling  before  her.  Her  eyes 
glowed  with  suppressed  anguish,  and  she  was  so  majestic 
and  terrible  in  her  silence  that  Nana  again  tried  to  defend 
herself. 

"I  swear,  Madame,  it  was  not  my  fault.  If  his  brother  were 
here  he  could  explain — " 

"His  brother  has  stolen.  He  is  in  prison,"  replied  the 
mother  harshly. 

Nana  was  overcome.  The  whole  family  was  crazy,  one 
stealing,  the  other  killing  himself.  She  wished  to  get  away  from 
them  all,  and  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  relief  that  she  saw  "Zizi," 
as  she  used  to  call  Georges,  carried  down-stairs  and  placed  in  a 
carriage  by  order  of  Madame  Hugon.  That  lady  made  but  one 
remark  to  Nana  as  she  left  her  apartment :  "  Ah !  you  have  done 
me  a  grievous  wrong." 

That  was  all,  and  Nana  remained  silent,  as  if  stupefied. 
She  had  not  yet  removed  her  hat  or  her  gloves,  and  so  Count 
Muff  at  found  her  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later.  "It  was  not  my 
fault,"  she  said  to  him.  "  I  am  so  unfortunate !  I  had  no  idea 
the  boy  would  try  to  kill  himself  in  this  foolish  way." 

The  Count  remained  silent,  frozen  at  the  thought  of  the 
tragedy  which  had  just  taken  place.  He  knew  Madame  Hugon 
well,  and  knew  how  keenly  she  must  be  suffering  at  that  moment. 
Meanwhile  Zoe  was  trying  to  remove  the  blood-stain  from  the 
carpet  in  front  of  the  door,  but  without  avail. 

"  Madame,"  she  remarked,  in  distress,  "  I  cannot  get  the  spot 
out." 

It  was  true;  the  red  spot  would  reappear,  showing  plainly 
on  the  white  roses  in  the  design  of  the  carpet.    It  was  only  at 


36o  NANA 

the  threshold  of  the  room,  but  the  stain  of  blood  seemed  to  bar 
the  entrance  to  the  apartment. 

''Don't  worry!"  said  Nana  gaily;  ''it  will  go  when  people 
have  walked  over  it,  as  they  go  in  and  out  of  the  room."  It  did 
not  disappear,  however,  until  some  weeks  later,  when  Georges 
Hugon  died.  When  Nana  heard  the  news  she  glanced  involun- 
tarily at  the  carpet.  The  stain  was  no  longer  there,  for  it  had 
indeed  been  worn  away  by  passing  feet. 

Nana  was  overcome  at  the  ill  omen.  She  sobbed  aloud  in 
her  anguish,  and  moaned  that  everyone  had  turned  against  her. 
Madame  Hugon,  Philip,  Steiner,  and  now  that  very  morning 
Count  Muffat  had  found  her  in  a  compromising  situation  with 
the  Marquis  de  Chouard.  This  was  the  final  overthrow  of  his 
infatuation  for  Nana.  Seeking  the  sympathy  and  priestly  guid- 
ance of  M.  Venot,  he  thenceforth  returned  to  a  strict  observance 
of  his  religious  duties. 

Nana  knew  him  no  more,  and  in  consequence  the  source 
from  which  she  had  been  able  to  satisfy  her  slightest  whim 
abruptly  ceased.  She  found  it  convenient  to  leave  Paris  about 
this  time.  As  she  remarked  to  one  of  her  friends  before  her 
departure,  she  realized  the  harm  she  brought  to  all  who  came 
in  contact  with  her, 

"I  am  unfortunate,"  she  exclaimed  despairingly.  "I  ruin 
all  who  come  near  me.  I  cannot  understand  the  reason.  I  give 
all  I  have.  I  would  not  hurt  a  fly.  Is  it  my  fault  that  Georges 
killed  himself,  that  Philip  was  a  thief,  that  the  Count  showered 
his  wealth  on  me?  I  could  have  been  a  countess  twenty  times 
over  for  the  asking  had  I  consented.  I  refused  because  I  was 
sensible.  Why  do  they  blame  me  and  turn  their  heads  away 
when  they  meet  me?  It  is  an  injustice!  When  the  man  errs 
he  is  excused,  but  the  woman  never.  Ah!  it  is  their  fault,  they 
have  dragged  me  down,  and  now  it  is  all  over." 

Her  work  of  ruin  and  death  was  completed,  and  she  felt  she 
had  thus  avenged  herself  on  the  base  fabric  forming  the  founda- 
tion of  society  among  the  rich.  The  house  which  Count  Muffat 
had  bought  and  furnished  for  her  use  was  rapidly  dismantled, 
the  effects  were  sold  or  given  away,  and  Nana,  richly  gowned, 
suddenly  took  her  departure. 

Some  months  passed,  and  she  was  forgotten  for  a  time. 


fiMILE   ZOLA  361 

Then  strange  stories  began  to  circulate  concerning  her.  She 
had  made  the  conquest  of  a  Turkish  viceroy,  it  was  said,  and 
reigned  supreme  in  his  palace,  with  two  hundred  slaves  at  her 
command.  Later  it  was  rumored  that  she  had  gone  to  Russia, 
where  some  prince  was  showering  her  with  diamonds.  No  one 
knew  whence  the  reports  came,  but  the  fabled  wealth  of  Nana 
was  whispered  by  one  to  another  until  she  assumed  the  aspect 
of  a  mysterious  goddess  laden  with  jewels. 

One  evening  in  July  another  story  was  heard  among  the 
companions  of  Nana,  who  had  shared  her  conquest  on  the  night 
of  the  performance  of  The  Blonde  Venus. 

"Nana  has  returned,"  said  one,  named  Lucy  Stewart,  to  her 
friend  Caroline,  "and,  do  you  know,  she  may  be  dead  at  this 
very  moment.'' 

"Dead!"  exclaimed  Caroline  in  horror.  "Where  is  she  and 
what  is  the  matter  with  her?" 

"  She  is  at  the  Grand  H6tel,"  Lucy  replied,  adding  in  awed 
accents:  "She  has  smallpox.     Such  a  story!" 

Then  she  told  her  friend  that  Nana  had  suddenly  returned 
from  Russia,  hurrying  to  the  home  of  her  aunt,  Madame  Lerat. 
There  she  found  her  little  girl  Louise  dying  of  smallpox,  the 
child  breathing  her  last  the  following  day.  Nana  upbraided  her 
aunt,  accusing  her  of  being  the  cause  of  the  child's  death.  Why 
had  she  not  taken  better  care  of  her?  Did  she  not  send  plenty 
of  money?    Her  aunt  declared  she  had  not  received  a  sou. 

Nana  was  furious;  she  would  not  have  anything  more  to  do 
with  her  aunt  and  left  her,  going  to  some  hotel.  On  the  way 
she  had  met  Rose  Mignon,  who  had  been  her  rival  on  the  stage, 
but  was  now  the  only  one  to  befriend  her  in  her  hour  of  need. 
She  felt  feverish  and  found  that  she  had  contracted  the  dread 
disease  from  her  child.  Rose  promised  to  remain  with  her  and 
take  care  of  her,  though  in  the  olden  days  she  had  been  her 
bitterest  enemy.  Nana  was  taken  to  the  Grand  H6tel  and  cared 
for  by  Rose  till  the  hour  of  her  death. 

Meanwhile  the  city  was  in  a  state  of  ferment,  owing  to  the 
fact  that  the  legislature  had  given  out  a  proclamation  for  war. 
The  streets  were  crowded  on  the  day  of  Nana's  death  with  an 
excited  throng  discussing  the  coming  departure  of  the  army  to 
Berlin.     Many  were  pale  and  in  distress  at  the  thought  of  their 


362  NANA 

dear  ones  leaving  them,  and  others  were  shouting  enthusi- 
astically : 

"On  to  Berlin!     On  to  Berlin!" 

The  city  was  a  scene  of  the  utmost  confusion  and  disorder, 
and  amidst  it  Nana  lay  dying,  undisturbed  by  all  that  was  pass- 
ing around  her.  For  two  days  Rose  Mignon  had  remained  in 
the  room  with  Nana,  risking  the  loss  of  her  own  beauty  should 
she  contract  the  disease. 

In  front  of  the  hotel  a  man  was  sitting  on  a  bench,  his  face 
hidden  in  his  handkerchief.  It  was  Count  Muffat,  who  had 
been  there  constantly  ever  since  Nana's  arrival.  Now  and  then 
he  would  look  at  the  windows  of  the  room  in  the  hotel  where 
Nana  had  been  taken  and  then  hide  his  face  again  in  his  hand- 
kerchief. 

"He  has  been  there  since  six  o'clock  this  morning,  I  know," 
said  Rose  Mignon's  husband  to  the  journalist  Fauchery.  "He 
has  been  there  ever  since  he  heard  the  news  of  Nana's  ilbiess. 
Every  half-hour  he  goes  over  to  the  hotel  to  ask  for  news,  and 
then  returns  to  keep  watch." 

Just  then  the  Count  raised  his  eyes  in  the  direction  of  Nana's 
room,  careless  of  what  was  going  on  around  him.  The  next 
minute  Fauchery  and  Mignon  saw  him  walk  to  the  entrance  of 
the  hdtel  and  ask  for  news  concerning  Nana. 

"  Monsieur,  she  died  just  this  instant,"  was  the  reply. 

Nana  dead!  Muffat  without  a  word  returned  to  the  bench, 
his  face  again  hidden  in  his  handkerchief.  Fauchery  and 
Mignon  were  aghast,  but  everything  around  them  went  on  as 
usual.  Just  then  another  procession  of  soldiers  passed  by,  shout- 
ing: "Onto  Berlin!" 

Rose  Mignon  came  down-stairs  and  told  her  husband  that 
all  was  over.  Mignon  sighed  sympathetically,  but  Fauchery 
was  truly  grieved  at  the  news  of  Nana's  death. 

Lucy  Stewart,  who  had  joined  the  trio,  compared  notes  with 
Rose  regarding  the  last  time  they  had  seen  Nana  on  the  stage. 
It  was  in  Melusine,  when  she  had  appeared  in  all  her  beauty, 
illumined  by  a  ray  of  electric  light  and  dazzling  to  behold. 
Could  it  be  possible  this  same  woman  was  dead,  disfigured  by 
the  horrible  disease  of  smallpox?    It  seemed  impossible. 

Other  companions  of  Nana  who  had  been  with  her  on  the 


fiMILE  ZOLA  363 

stage,  hearing  the  news,  hurried  to  the  h6tel.  They  must  go  to 
the  room  and  see  Nana  for  the  last  time,  they  insisted,  despite 
the  protests  of  their  friends,  who  dreaded  the  result  of  con- 
tagion. Rose  led  them  to  the  fourth  floor,  where  in  Room  No. 
401  the  silence  of  death  had  reigned  until  broken  by  the  sound  of 
their  voices. 

On  the  threshold  of  the  room,  the  girls,  awed  in  spite  of  them- 
selves, stopped  talking. 

Then  Lucy  grasped  the  hand  of  Rose  Mignon,  whispering: 
"How  sad  this  is!    We  have  come  to  say  adieu  to  Nana." 

She  looked  in  the  direction  of  the  bed,  but  it  was  hidden  in 
shadow,  and  she  had  not  the  courage  to  move  the  lamp  nearer. 
Rose  had  seated  herself  in  a  chair  near  the  bed,  saying  dreamily, 
every  now  and  then :  "  Ah,  how  she  has  changed ! " 

Other  friends  of  Nana  came  into  the  room,  and  hearing  the 
uproar  in  the  street  outside  went  to  the  open  window  and  looked 
down  on  the  scene  below.  They  soon  became  so  engrossed  in 
conversation  that  they  forgot  all  about  Nana  and  raised  their 
voices.  Presently  they  noticed  a  group  of  men  standing  near 
the  entrance  to  the  h6tel,  and  they  recognized  Mignon,  who  was 
signaling  to  them  to  send  Rose  down.  ''I  am  coming,"  said 
Rose  mournfully.  "Now  she  is  dead  I  can  do  nothing  more 
for  her.    They  are  going  to  send  a  sister  to  stay  with  her." 

Then  she  put  the  room  in  order,  arranging  the  curtains, 
which  had  been  disturbed  by  the  visitors,  and  the  furniture. 
When  she  changed  the  position  of  the  lamp,  so  that  its  light  fell 
directly  on  Nana's  face,  Lucy  and  her  friends  gave  one  look  and 
then  fled  shrieking  from  the  room. 

"Yes,  she  is  changed,"  Rose  murmured  monotonously,  as 
she  remained  till  all  had  gone.  Then  she  followed  them,  closing 
the  door  gently,  and  Nana  was  left  alone  in  the  empty  room,  the 
silence  broken  only  by  the  hoarse  cry  of  the  multitude  below : 

"On  to  Berlin!    To  Berlin!" 


GERMINAL   (1885) 

This  story  sometimes  bears  the  title  Nana's  Brother,  as  it  is,  in  a  way,  a 
sequel  to  Nana,  though  it  never  attained  the  popularity  of  the  former  work. 


fN  a  starless  night  a  solitary  wayfarer  was  walking 
along  the  highway  across  the  plain  from  Marchi- 
ennes  to  Montson.  He  carried  all  his  earthly 
possessions  tied  up  in  a  checked  kerchief,  and 
shivered  with  cold.  Two  meters  from  Montson, 
he  found  the  buildings  around  the  mouth  of  a 
coal  mine,  and  fires  for  warming  and  lighting. 
The  workmen  evidently  regarded  the  stranger 
with  suspicion.  Accordingly,  he  announced  him- 
self as  Etienne  Lantier,  a  machinist,  and  inquired  whether  there 
were  not  some  work  for  him;  but  they  said  there  was  none. 
Etienne  was  in  despair.  For  a  week  he  had  been  tramping  the 
country  in  search  of  work,  ever  since  he  had  slapped  his  boss's 
face  in  Lille,  and  had  found  neither  money  nor  food  on  the  road. 
He  was  almost  starved.  The  men  told  him  there  were  plenty  of 
mines  and  shops  in  the  neighborhood,  but  times  were  bad  now, 
and  shops  were  shutting  down.  The  consumptive  old  driver 
told  him,  also,  that  his  family,  the  Maheus,  had  worked  in  that 
Voreux  mine,  father  and  son,  ever  since  it  was  opened — one 
hundred  and  six  years  ago. 

This  old  Bonnemorte,  aged  sixty-six,  lived  with  his  son, 
whose  family  consisted  of  a  wife  and  seven  children,  all  crowded 
into  a  house  of  three  rooms.  The  eldest  son,  Zacharie,  aged 
twenty-one;  Catharine,  the  eldest  daughter,  a  slender,  red- 
haired  girl  of  sixteen,  with  superb  teeth,  and  Jeanlin,  a  puny, 
scrofulous  child  of  eleven,  worked  in  the  mine,  as  well  as  their 
father  and  grandfather.  Their  average  united  earnings  were 
nine  francs  a  day,  for  the  support  of  a  family  of  ten  persons. 
A  vague  fear  caused  Etienne  to  move  on,  just  as  Maheu  and 

364 


fiMILE  ZOLA  365 

Catharine  (who,  in  her  mining-jacket  and  trousers,  looked  like 
a  boy)  came  along,  and  to  them  he  made  a  final  appeal  for  work. 
Maheu  lingered  a  little,  in  pity,  and  shortly  afterward,  when  he 
heard  that  a  member  of  their  gang  had  been  found  dead  in  bed 
the  day  before,  he  remembered  him.  Their  work  would  suffer 
if  there  was  no  one  to  push  the  cars  but  Catharine,  and  Maheu 
asked  of  the  superintendent,  who  arrived  just  then,  permission 
to  hire  the  man,  especially  as  the  company  wished  to  replace 
woman  pushers  by  men.     Danseart  consented. 

It  was  very  hot  in  the  vein  at  the  sixth  floor  where  Maheu 
and  his  gang  worked,  and  Etienne  was  stifled,  scratched,  bruised, 
and  almost  exhausted  before  the  day  was  done.  During  the 
day  he  had  discovered  that  Catharine  was  not  a  boy,  and  had 
felt  much  attracted  by  her,  had  meditated  kissing  her,  grateful 
for  her  instructions  as  to  his  work.  Cheval,  a  member  of  the 
gang,  between  whom  and  Etienne  a  strong  antipathy  had  sprung 
up  on  first  sight,  had  been  watching  them,  and  now  approached, 
seized  Catharine  by  the  shoulders,  and  forcibly  kissed  her. 
Etienne,  with  a  chill,  felt  that  it  was  stupid  to  have  waited. 

Shortly  afterward  Danseart  and  Paul  Megrel,  the  engineer 
of  the  mine — a  nephew  of  Monsieur  Hennebeau,  the  manager — 
came  to  inspect  their  work,  and  ordered  them  to  increase  their 
props,  as  the  rock  was  sinking  and  there  was  danger  to  them 
and  to  the  mine.  The  miners  were  apt  to  neglect  adequate 
propping,  because  it  diminished  their  output  of  coal  and  their 
pay. 

So  exhausted  and  discouraged  was  Etienne  when  he  came 
out  of  the  shaft  that  he  resolved  to  resume  his  journey  and 
starve  on  the  road,  if  need  be.  But  Maheu  offered  to  get  him 
credit  until  pay-day,  and  took  him  to  the  tavern,  kept  by  Ras- 
seneur,  formerly  a  miner.  When  Etienne  happened  to  mention, 
as  they  were  talking  about  the  bad  outlook  for  work,  that  he 
knew  Pluchart,  the  head  of  the  laborers'  union,  who  had  been 
his  foreman,  the  affair  was  settled  in  a  few  words.  Etienne,  to 
his  surprise,  soon  found  himself  longing  to  descend  again  into 
the  mine  and  suffer  with  the  others.  Possibly  it  was  the  thought 
of  Catharine  that  prompted  him  and  decided  him  to  remain. 

Weeks,  months  passed.  Etienne  learned  his  work  and  was 
respected  as  a  good  man  who  never  shirked.     He  continued 


366  GERMINAL 

to  live  at  Rasseneur^s,  and  there  became  friendly  with  a 
man  of  about  thirty  years,  named  Jouvarine,  who  occupied  the 
adjoining  room  and  was  machinist  at  the  Voreux.  Jouvarine 
was  slender,  rather  girlish  in  appearance,  and  wore  an  air  of 
careless  amiability;  but  at  times  his  pale  gray  eyes  flashed 
fiercely.  His  reticence  and  his  gentlemanlike  hands  made  the 
workmen  suspect  that  he  belonged  to  a  higher  class.  Before 
long,  Etienne  learned  a  good  deal  of  his  history.  Jouvarine 
was  the  last -born  of  a  noble  family  in  Toula,  Russia,  and  while 
studying  medicine  in  St.  Petersburg  he  had  been  seized  with  the 
socialist  craze,  which  was  then  raging.  He  determined  to  be- 
come a  mechanic,  live  with  the  common  poeple,  and  aid  them 
like  a  brother.  After  an  attempt  upon  the  hfe  of  the  Emperor 
he  had  fled  abroad.  Disowned  by  his  family,  penniless,  noted 
as  a  stranger  on  the  books  of  all  French  workshops,  he  was 
thought  to  be  a  spy,  and  was  actually  dying  of  hunger  when  the 
Monston  company  engaged  him  in  his  hour  of  need.  He  had 
worked  for  them  a  year,  so  soberly,  silently,  faithfully,  that  the 
overseers  were  wont  to  point  him  out  to  the  rest  as  an  example. 
He  kept  much  to  himself,  wishing  no  shackles,  either  women  or 
friends.  Etienne  had  been  asked  to  form  a  society  of  the  miners 
at  Montson,  as  a  branch  of  the  famous  International,  by  Plu- 
chart,  with  whom  he  had  been  in  correspondence  for  two 
months.  Jouvarine  thought  the  idea  sheer  nonsense;  but  he 
agreed  with  Etienne  and  Rasseneur  that  a  change  must  come. 

About  this  time  Maheu  got  permission  from  the  superin- 
tendent to  employ  Etienne  as  miner  (instead  of  a  pusher),  in  the 
place  of  Levaque,  who  had  gone  to  another  drift,  and  Etienne 
began  his  propaganda  among  the  workmen  as  to  the  necessity 
of  establishing  a  saving-fund.  Maheu's  eldest  son  married  in 
August,  and  Maheu  suggested  that  Etienne  should  come  to 
board  with  his  family,  the  object  being  to  reduce  expenses. 
Etienne  read  voraciously  all  sorts  of  books  on  social  subjects, 
and  discussed  them  of  an  evening  with  the  Maheu  family.  But 
neither  he  nor  they  had  sufficient  education  to  digest  this  material 
or  to  view  it  in  coordination  with  other  things.  The  neighbors 
dropped  in  to  listen,  and  gradually  Etienne 's  influence  expanded. 
He  revolutionized  the  whole  alley,  and  the  esteem  of  his  friends 
increased  immensely,  thanks  partly  to  the  fact  that  he  was 


fiMILE   ZOLA  367 

frugal  and  managed  to  dress  well,  which  bred  public  considera- 
tion rather  than  awakened  envy. 

Toward  the  end  of  October  the  company,  under  the  pretext 
of  a  break  in  the  engine,  suspended  work  in  the  Voreux  mine. 
For  some  time,  fearing  a  panic,  and  not  wishing  to  increase 
their  already  heavy  stock,  they  had  been  avaihng  themselves  of 
every  possible  excuse  to  stop  the  labor  of  their  ten  thousand 
workmen.  Jouvarine  was  the  only  one  with  sufficient  intel- 
ligence to  analyze  the  situation,  and  he  declared  that  the  savings 
fund  (which  now  amounted  to  three  thousand  francs)  was  mak- 
ing the  company  uneasy,  as  it  constituted  a  threat  for  the  future. 
If  the  men  could  be  induced  to  strike,  that  fund  would  be  cleared 
away  while  still  small;  and  they  were  trying  to  force  a  strike 
accordingly. 

At  last  the  blow  fell.  The  company  posted  notices  inform- 
ing the  miners  that,  owing  to  the  fear  of  being  compelled  to  im- 
pose heavy  fines  for  poor  propping,  it  had  decided  to  institute  a 
new  method  of  payment  for  the  coal-diggers.  Henceforth  it 
would  pay  in  part  for  the  timbering,  and  the  price  for  the  cars 
of  coal  would  be  cut  down  in  proportion,  from  fifty  centimes  to 
forty.  This  plan  was  to  go  into  operation  on  the  first  of  Decem- 
ber. On  the  pay-day  when  this  notice  was  posted,  Maheu  re- 
ceived as  his  share  of  his  gang's  wages  (after  deductions  for  de- 
fective timbering)  only  fifty  francs,  on  which  nine  people  would 
have  to  five  a  fortnight.  Moreover,  he  was  summoned  to  the 
secretary,  who  reprimanded  him  for  meddling  with  "poHtics." 
Allusions  were  made  also  to  the  saving-fund  and  to  his  lodger 
Etienne.  Other  miners  suffered  as  well.  Rasseneur  no  longer 
opposed  a  strike;  Jouvarine  accepted  it  as  a  first  step.  Etienne 
took  in  the  situation  at  once :  the  company  wanted  a  strike,  and 
it  should  have  it. 

A  week  later  misfortune  overtook  Maheu.  Little  Jeanlin 
was  buried  in  a  cave-in,  and  was  rescued  with  both  legs  broken. 
The  child  was  doomed  to  limp  for  the  rest  of  his  Hfe.  The  com- 
pany gave  the  family  fifty  francs,  and  promised  easy  employ- 
ment for  the  lad  on  his  recovery.  But  the  father  had  received 
such  a  shock  that  he  fell  ill  with  a  severe  fever.  Just  after  he 
was  able  to  return  to  work,  his  daughter  Catharine  finally  took 
up  her  abode  with  Cheval.     They  had  been  going  together  a 


368  GERMINAL 

long  time;  and  now,  as  they  had  been  having  terrible  quarrels, 
she  had  decided  to  go  and  live  with  him  to  avoid  his  reproaches. 
Cheval  had  left  the  Voreux,  and  was  working  at  the  Jean-Bart 
mine,  taking  Catharine  with  him  as  his  wheeler;  and  they  lived 
in  Montson.  This  left  Maheu  alone  to  support  seven  persons, 
including  the  baby. 

On  the  last  day  of  November  the  miners  of  the  Voreux  mine 
decided  to  strike,  and  chose  delegates  to  call  upon  the  manager, 
M.  Hennebeau,  the  next  day.  Maheu  was  to  be  the  spokesman. 
His  wife  protested  vigorously;  but  Etienne  explained  that  Maheu 
was  the  best  and  most  respected  workman  in  the  mines,  in  whose 
good  sense  everyone  had  full  faith,  and  all  wished  him  to  state 
their  demands.  The  wife  accepted  the  situation,  but  declared 
that  their  ruin  was  now  certain.  M.  Hennebeau  received  the 
delegation  (which  included  Etienne)  in  his  sumptuously  fur- 
nished drawing-room,  and  Maheu,  overcoming  his  timidity,  de- 
clared that  the  miners  preferred  to  starve  at  once,  rather  than 
work  without  earning  bread  to  eat.  They  had  struck,  and 
would  return  to  work  only  when  the  company  had  accepted  their 
conditions,  which  were  that  matters  should  remain  as  before  in 
regard  to  timbering,  and  that  five  centimes  should  be  added  to 
the  pay  for  each  car.  M.  Hennebeau  stated  the  case  from  the 
company's  point  of  view,  and  declared  that  it  must  have  control 
of  the  saving-fund,  since  it  was  in  reality  a  reserve  fund  to  pay 
the  expenses  of  the  war.  The  interview  ended  by  M.  Henne- 
beau promising  a  prompt  reply  from  the  company  to  their  de- 
mands. 

A  fortnight  passed  and  the  strike  became  wide-spread.  Many 
families  were  without  food,  and  the  outlook  was  terrible.  But 
no  one  complained;  all  had  a  blind,  religious  faith  in  Etienne, 
and  implicitly  obeyed  his  commands.  He  told  Rasseneur 
frankly  that  he  intended  to  organize  a  private  mutiny;  for  vic- 
tory seemed  assured,  if  only  all  the  coal  men  of  Montson  would 
join  the  International. 

Jouvarine  was  a  tranquil  and  curious  onlooker;  he  had  his 
plan  from  the  start ;  and  the  machinists  at  the  Voreux  were  not 
on  strike.  At  time  went  on,  the  machinery  deteriorated,  there 
were  cave-ins  at  the  mines,  the  supply  of  coal  was  exhausted, 
and  customers  threatened  to  take  their  orders  elsewhere.     The 


fiMILE  ZOLA  369 

company  suffered  as  much  as  the  miners,  but  neither  party 
would  give  in.  The  Maheu  family  sold  everything  they  pos- 
sessed to  buy  food,  but  starved  nevertheless.  Maigrat,  the 
storekeeper,  refused  further  credit  when  the  miners'  wives  went 
to  him  in  a  body  to  plead.  The  company  threatened  to  dis- 
charge all  the  miners  and  hire  men  from  Belgium.  It  was  war 
to  the  death.  Even  the  Maheus,  formerly  so  peaceable,  were 
thoroughly  exasperated.  Finally  it  was  decided  to  hold  a  mass- 
meeting  in  the  time-honored  rallying-place,  the  forest  of  Van- 
dame.  At  that  meeting  Etienne  was  the  chief  speaker  and 
ruled  all  minds.  He  declared  that  the  time  for  justice  had 
come;  that  the  mines  ought  to  belong  to  the  miners;  and  that  the 
men  must  not  yield  now,  after  all  their  sufferings.  The  throng 
of  men,  women,  and  children  were  seized  with  a  sort  of  religious 
exaltation,  and  the  uproar  that  ensued  was  the  sign  of  popularity 
that  rejoiced  Etienne.  Cheval,  whom  he  attacked  for  being 
present  though  he  was  working  at  the  Jean-Bart  mine  ("He 
work!  No,  he  has  a  wife  who  works  for  him!"  shouted  a  voice) 
asserted  (falsely)  that  he  had  been  sent  to  announce  the  sym- 
pathy of  the  miners  there,  and  bade  the  whole  mob  come  to  Jean- 
Bart  on  the  morrow  and  see  whether  anyone  was  working. 
This  was  agreed  to,  and  they  dispersed  with  a  shout  of  "  Death 
to  traitors!"  Cheval  tried  to  make  good  his  assertion.  The 
next  morning  at  five  o'clock  Monsieur  Deneulin,  owner  of  the 
Jean-Bart,  was  awakened  by  one  of  his  overseers,  who  reported 
trouble  brewing.  He  found  some  of  his  people  willing  to  go 
into  the  mine;  but  the  majority  demanded  the  extra  five  cen- 
times a  car,  though  he  never  had  complained  of  the  propping 
and  had  not  instituted  the  new  Voreux  tariff.  He  explained 
that,  although  the  work  was  worth  it,  the  concession  would  ruin 
him,  and  he  frankly  stated  his  struggle  against  the  Montson 
company,  which  was  eagerly  on  the  watch  to  absorb  him.  Per- 
ceiving that  Cheval  was  the  ringleader,  he  summoned  him  for 
a  private  interview.  Cheval  was  made  to  realize  that  if  he  re- 
mained in  the  strike  he  could  never  be  more  than  a  lieutenant 
to  Etienne,  of  whom  he  was  fiercely  jealous  (both  on  account 
of  Catharine  and  for  other  reasons),  whereas,  if  he  accepted 
Deneulin's  offer  he  might  become  one  of  the  bosses,  and  he 
quieted  down.  He  reflected,  also,  that  the  gang  from  Montson 
A.D.,  VOL.  xvn. — 24 


370  GERMINAL 

must  have  encountered  some  obstacle  and  would  not  come.  He 
argued  with  his  comrades,  and  work  began  again.  But  he  was 
wrong  about  the  Montson  mob. 

That  morning  Catharine  nearly  lost  her  life  from  fire-damp; 
and  shortly  after  Cheval  had  revived  her  they  heard  a  frightful 
rumbling.  On  rushing  in  terror  to  the  shaft  they  found  that  the 
Monston  people  had  arrived,  and  had  cut  the  cables,  although 
they  knew  that  there  were  workmen  in  the  mine.  The  frightened 
throng  stampeded  for  the  ladders.  There  were  one  himdred 
and  two  of  these,  each  seven  meters  in  length.  Catharine,  ex- 
hausted by  her  experience  and  her  run  of  nearly  three  kilome- 
ters to  reach  them,  fell  and  was  trampled  upon  when  five  lad- 
ders still  remained.  Some  one — ^not  Cheval — carried  her  out. 
Etienne  and  Maheu  had  protested  in  vain  against  cutting  the 
cables,  after  the  former  had  fruitlessly  entreated  Deneulin  to 
order  his  people  out  of  the  mine.  Then  the  mob  raced  across 
the  plain  to  other  mines,  doing  damage  at  each,  shrieking  wildly 
for  ^' bread,"  and  growing  more  and  more  excited.  Etienne  kept 
the  traitor  Cheval  in  front  of  him,  and  Catharine  insisted  on  re- 
maining with  her  lover.  At  last  they  came  back  to  the  Gaston 
Marie  mine,  near  the  Jean-Bart,  with  the  intention  of  wrecking 
it  so  that  the  Jean-Bart  would  be  flooded.  There  had  been 
rumors  all  day  as  to  the  movements  of  the  gendarmes,  who  were 
continually  in  the  wrong  spot;  and  now  a  fresh  rumor  sent  the 
mob  to  Montson,  roaring:  "To  the  directors!  Bread,  bread, 
bread!'' 

All  day  long  M.  Hennebeau  had  remained  at  home,  con- 
stantly kept  informed  by  telegrams  and  messengers  of  what  was 
going  on.  At  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  he  heard  the  shouts  of 
the  maddened  throng.  It  had  passed  his  wife  and  her  party  two 
kilometers  away,  as  they  were  driving  back  from  a  luncheon  and 
pleasure-party  at  Marchiennes.  At  the  sound  of  danger  they  had 
concealed  the  carriage  and  horses  and  themselves  until  the  mob 
passed.  It  became  necessary  for  them  to  walk  the  last  hundred 
meters  and  try  to  enter  the  house  through  the  garden-gate  near 
the  servants'  quarters.  The  mob  espied  them,  but  in  the  gen- 
eral alarm  all  succeeded  in  entering  except  Cecile  Gregoire. 
The  mob  closed  in  upon  her,  threatening  to  tear  off  her  clothing. 
Old  Bonnemorte  seized  her  by  the  throat,  and  was  about  to 


£MILE   ZOLA  371 

strangle  her  when  Etienne  created  a  diversion  by  shouting  a 
suggestion  to  break  into  Maigrat's  shop,  where  there  was  bread; 
and  Deneuhn,  arriving  opportunely,  managed  to  get  her  into 
the  house,  where  her  frightened  parents  awaited  her.  The  mob 
pillaged  the  shop,  while  Maigrat  rolled  from  the  roof  of  a  shed 
and  died.  At  this  point  Catharine  came  and  warned  Etienne 
that  the  gendarmes  were  coming.  Cheval  had  gone  to  bring 
them.  The  mob  fled,  and  Etienne  hid  for  weeks  in  an  aban- 
doned mine,  where  he  had  discovered  Jeanlin's  well-provisioned 
lair.  The  strike  continued  to  spread,  and  the  whole  region  was 
in  ruins  and  despair.  One  day  Jeanlin  brought  Etienne  news 
that  the  tubing  of  the  shaft  had  given  way  to  such  a  degree  that 
the  mine  was  threatened  with  flooding.  Leaks  had  appeared 
in  every  direction,  and  a  corps  of  carpenters  had  been  hastily 
summoned  to  make  repairs.  Soldiers  were  posted  at  the 
mine. 

In  the  alley  the  distress  was  indescribable.  Alzire,  Maheu's 
humpbacked  but  helpful  little  daughter,  died  of  starvation;  and 
she  was  not  the  only  one.  That  Sunday  night  Etienne  (who 
had  often  left  his  hiding-place  to  visit  the  Maheus  and  others) 
went  to  Rasseneur's  tavern,  and  told  Jouvarine  that  Belgian 
miners  had  arrived,  and  work  would  be  resumed  on  the  Voreux 
mine  the  next  morning.  The  strike  was  breaking  up,  without 
a  doubt.  Still,  Etienne  held  that  if  the  miners  died  of  want  and 
suffering,  their  famished  bodies  would  do  more  for  the  cause 
than  Rasseneur's  prudent  logic.  Jouvarine  appeared  not  to 
hear,  but  his  girlish  face  grew  savage,  and,  replying  to  a  word 
of  Rasseneur's,  he  declared  that  all  were  cowards;  it  needed  but 
one  man  to  make  their  machine  the  terrible  instrument  of  de- 
struction, but  the  will  was  wanting,  and  that  is  the  reason  the 
revolution  would  fail  again.  Cheval  and  Catharine  came  in, 
and  from  words  he  and  Etienne  proceeded  to  blows,  which  ended 
in  the  former  being  hurled  to  the  floor  and  drawing  a  knife, 
of  which  Catharine  warned  Etienne.  When  Etienne  got  pos- 
session of  the  knife  he  spared  his  adversary;  but  Cheval,  as  he 
departed,  told  Catharine  that,  as  she  evidently  preferred  Etienne, 
he  might  take  care  of  her  in  the  future,  and  warned  her,  under 
penalty  of  her  life,  not  to  show  herself  at  his  place  again.  But 
Etienne  had  not  even  a  room  to  shelter  her,  and  she  returned  to 


372  GERMINAL 

Cheval,  only  to  be  turned  into  the  street  in  the  inclement  weather 
at  midnight,  and  wander  until  day.  That  night  Etienne  saw 
JeanHn  murder  the  sentinel  at  the  dump  of  the  Voreux,  and 
helped  the  lad  carry  the  body  to  the  deserted  mine,  where,  un- 
detected, they  hid  it  in  a  distant  recess. 

The  next  day,  in  the  course  of  an  encounter  between  the 
striking  miners  and  the  soldiers  on  guard,  the  miners  threw 
bricks,  and  the  military  at  last  fired  into  the  crowd.  Maheu  was 
among  the  killed.  After  the  battle  his  widow  allowed  Etienne 
to  bring  home  Catharine,  whom  she  had  once  turned  out  of 
doors,  and  Etienne  himself  again  lodged  in  the  house.  For  the 
company,  after  this  desperate  blow,  which  rang  throughout  the 
land,  took  excellent  though  tardy  measures.  They  sent  away 
both  the  Belgians  and  the  military,  and  posted  notices  announ- 
cing the  reopening  of  the  mines,  and  promising  generous  con- 
sideration and  concessions.  Catharine  announced  her  intention 
of  returning  to  work,  but  was  bitterly  opposed  by  her  mother. 
Etienne  found  that  his  prestige  was  entirely  gone,  and  he  was 
even  pelted  with  stones,  and  would  have  been  killed  had  not 
Rasseneur  made  him  enter  the  tavern  and  then  addressed  his 
pursuers  persuasively.  It  ended  in  the  mob's  proclaiming  the 
zealous  Rasseneur  as  their  new  idol. 

That  night  the  betrothal  dinner  of  Cecile  and  Megrel  took 
place  with  due  ceremony.  On  Sunday,  the  day  before  the  re- 
opening of  the  mine,  Etienne  had  a  talk  with  Jouvarine  and 
asked  whether  the  report  were  true  that  the  carpenters  had  not 
had  time  to  repair  the  tubing,  that  the  carpenter-work  lining  of 
the  shaft  had  been  pushed  so  far  out  of  place  by  the  weight  of 
the  rocks  that  a  cage  had  rubbed  against  the  sides  for  a  space 
of  more  than  five  meters.  Jouvarine  answered  coolly  and 
briefly  that  it  was  true,  but  the  chiefs  had  replied,  with  irrita- 
tion, that  it  was  coal  they  wanted  now,  and  proper  repairs 
should  be  made  by  and  by.  Etienne  declared  that  it  would 
burst;  to  which  Jouvarine  answered  tranquilly  that,  in  that 
case,  the  miners  whom  Etienne  was  advising  to  go  down  to 
work  would  be  killed.  Then  he  announced  that  he  was  go- 
ing away — somewhere,  he  did  not  know  where — ^never  to 
return. 

When  the  clock  struck  midnight  Jouvarine  went  to  the  mine, 


fiMILE   ZOLA  373 

got  some  tools,  and  descended  the  shaft  without  a  h'ght.  He 
knew  that  the  cage  rubbed  at  a  depth  of  three  hundred  and 
seventy-four  meters,  and  when  he  had  counted  fifty-four  ladders 
he  found  the  bulging  spot  by  feeling.  Then,  with  his  saw  and 
auger,  he  began  to  weaken  the  already  weak  partitions.  In 
that  region  there  were  immense  sheets  of  water  underground 
which  it  was  very  difficult  to  keep  out  of  the  mines.  The  lining 
of  the  shaft  was  already  leaking  badly;  the  carpenters,  pressed 
for  time,  had  done  their  work  carelessly,  and  many  screws  were 
not  tight.  It  was  a  perilous  task,  and  more  than  once  Jouvarine 
came  near  falling  headlong  to  the  bottom.  But  he  worked 
furiously  to  weaken  the  compartments,  though  drenched  in  the 
icy  rain  of  the  streams  that  began  to  percolate  through.  He  had 
expected  this,  and  nothing  should  balk  him  of  his  purpose.  At 
four  o'clock  Etienne  and  Catharine,  who  were  accepting  the 
invitation  to  return  to  work,  met  him  on  the  road.  Jouvarine 
caught  Etienne  by  the  shoulder  and  turned  him  toward  the 
alley,  saying : ''  Go  home !  I  wish  it,  do  you  understand  ?"  But 
when  Etienne  persisted  he  bade  him  ^'  Good-by  forever." 

When  the  first  cage  went  down,  carrying  Etienne,  Catharine, 
and  others,  it  was  evident  that  there  was  trouble.  But  the  cage 
broke  through  the  obstruction  and,  although  alarmed  at  the 
torrents  of  water,  no  one  turned  back,  no  overseer  climbed  the 
ladders  to  investigate.  Etienne,  Catharine,  Cheval,  and  their 
gang,  deep  in  the  mine,  heard  strange  noises;  but,  engrossed  in 
their  work  of  propping,  they  paid  no  heed  until  Catharine  re- 
turned from  her  first  trip  to  the  inclined  plane  and  reported  that 
everyone  had  gone  away.  Panic  ensued.  The  men  flung  down 
their  tools  and  made  for  the  shaft-room.  But  the  torrent  was 
already  upon  them,  spouting  from  everywhere.  Huge  sections 
of  the  woodwork  crashed  down,  and  prevented  use  of  the 
ladders.  Throngs  of  miners  poured  from  every  gallery,  and 
fought  to  enter  the  cages,  fearing  that  each  would  be  the  last. 
Etienne,  Cheval,  and  Catharine  arrived  too  late. 

On  the  surface  the  disaster  was  already  known.  Paul  Megrel 
had  himself  lowered  into  the  shaft,  and  discovered  evidences 
that  the  woodwork  had  been  deliberately  weakened,  and  Henne- 
beau  and  he  were  startled  at  the  daring  of  the  unknown  mis- 
creant.    Before  night  the  wreck  was  complete,  the  earth  had 


374  GERMINAL 

caved  in  at  the  shafthead,  the  buildings  and  machinery  were 
swallowed  up,  and  the  canal  fell,  a  roaring  cataract,  into  the 
abyss.  Then  Jouvarine  arose  from  his  seat  in  the  driver's 
house  on  the  hill,  where  he  had  remained  with  his  eyes  riveted 
on  the  mine,  flung  away  his  cigarette,  and  walked  tranquilly 
away  to  carry  his  work  of  destruction  elsewhere. 

Fifteen  miners  were  imprisoned,  and  the  problem  was  how 
to  set  about  a  rescue.  It  would  take  years  to  drain  the  Voreux; 
but  the  overseers  bethought  themselves  of  the  old  galleries  of 
the  abandoned  Requillart  mine,  and  tried  to  effect  an  entrance 
through  them.  At  the  end  of  three  days,  just  as  Megrel  had 
abandoned  hope,  Zacharie  Maheu  declared  that  Catharine  had 
answered  his  signal,  and  the  men  began  to  tunnel  in  the  direction 
of  the  tapping.  On  the  ninth  day  Zacharie  was  killed  by  an 
explosion  of  fire-damp.  This  aroused  pity  for  the  Maheu 
family  in  C^cile  Gregoire  and  her  parents;  and  after  a  visit — as 
was  the  fashion  then — to  the  scene  of  the  disaster,  with  Madame 
Hennebeau  and  Deneulin's  daughters,  they  drove  to  the  alley, 
to  carry  the  Maheus  some  food,  wine,  and  clothing.  Old  Bonne- 
morte,  imbecile  and  helpless  in  his  chair,  was  the  only  person 
there,  and  when  C^cile  remained  alone  with  him  for  a  moment 
while  her  parents  went  into  the  neighboring  house,  by  some  in- 
explicable access  of  strength  he  fell  upon  her  and  strangled  her, 
having  dimly  recognized  her  as  the  girl  who  had  been  saved  from 
his  clutches  in  the  riot. 

Down  in  the  mine  the  imprisoned  workmen  had  dispersed, 
seeking  safety.  Etienne  and  Catharine  remained  together,  and 
after  hours  of  toil,  wading  through  water  up  to  their  shoulders, 
entered  a  gallery  which  Etienne  recognized  as  in  the  Requillart 
mine,  where  he  had  hidden  himself  so  long.  But  they  encoun- 
tered Cheval,  who  had  come  by  a  different  road,  and  the  three, 
halted  in  their  progress  by  a  cave-in,  were  forced  to  remain  to- 
gether. Cheval  threatened  to  kill  Etienne,  and  the  latter,  de- 
fending Catharine  and  himself,  killed  Cheval.  By  the  time  the 
rescuers  dug  through  to  them  Catharine  was  dead,  and  Etienne, 
the  sole  survivor,  was  almost  beyond  hope.  At  the  end  of  six 
weeks  in  hospital,  however,  he  was  able  to  leave  Montson,  where 
work  had  been  resumed  at  all  the  mines  except  the  Voreux,  the 
workmen  having  been  starved  into  submission  by  two  months 


fiMILE  ZOLA  375 

and  a  half  of  suffering.  The  widow  Maheu,  who  had  threatened 
to  strangle  any  member  of  her  family  who  returned  to  work,  was 
compelled  to  go  to  the  mine  herself.  Etienne  set  out  for  Paris, 
feeling  that  his  education  was  finished  and  that  he  would  be, 
like  Pluchart,  a  leader  of  men.  Still,  he  thought  violence  had 
not  hastened  matters  at  Montson. 


THE  LAND   (1887) 
{La  Terre) 

Zola's  bitterness  against  the  political  and  social  situation  of  France  found 
vent  in  this  story,  which,  as  was  the  case  with  nearly  all  his  work,  called  forth  a 
storm  of  criticism. 


;EAN  MACQUART,  a  Provencal,  returned  to 
France  after  the  battle  of  Solferino,  with  his  dis- 
charge, and  a  comrade  brought  him  to  the  village 
of  Rognes,  in  Beauce.  Jean  had  been  a  carpenter 
and  at  first  he  had  applied  himself  to  the  same 
trade  in  Rognes,  but  he  had  soon  abandoned  it 
and  engaged  with  Monsieur  Hourdequin,  owner  of 
a  large  farm  called  La  Borderie,  displaying  great 
capacity  for  field  work.  One  morning,  as  he  had 
just  finished  sowing  a  parcel  of  land,  he  saw  a  young  peasant  girl, 
hardly  more  than  a  child,  leading  a  large  red  and  white  cow  in 
his  direction.  Presently  he  perceived  that  the  cow  was  running 
away,  while  the  girl  was  unable  to  stop  her,  the  halter  being 
knotted  fast  around  her  wrist.  He  went  to  the  rescue,  and 
found  that  she  was  the  fourteen-year-old  daughter  of  an  old 
man  called  Father  Mouche.  As  they  chatted,  she  pointed  out 
a  black  speck  on  the  road  to  Cloyes,  which  she  said  was  her 
uncle  Fouan  and  her  aunt  Rose  driving  to  the  notary  to  divide 
their  land  between  their  daughter  and  their  two  sons.  That 
was  the  first  meeting  between  Franfoise  and  Jean. 

Old  Fouan  was  as  fondly  attached  to  his  land  as  are  all 
French  peasants,  but  had  determined  upon  a  division,  because 
he  found  that  his  strength  was  unequal  to  cultivating  it.  His 
oldest  child  was  Hyacinthe,  a  drunken  good-for-nothing,  with 
a  face  that  suggested  Christ,  if  one  could  fancy  such  a  being 
lowered  by  dissipation.     So  strong  was  the  suggestion  that  he 

376 


fiMILE  ZOLA  377 

was  generally  and  irreverently  called  "Jesus  Christ."  On  his 
return  from  military  service  in  Africa,  Hyacinthe  had  refused  to 
work,  and  lived  by  poaching  and  marauding.  Fanny,  aged 
thirty-four,  came  next.  She  was  married  to  a  very  well-to-do 
man,  Delhomme.  Buteau,  the  youngest  son,  aged  twenty-seven, 
had  always  been  headstrong  and  rebellious,  and  even  as  a  boy 
he  never  had  been  able  to  get  on  with  his  parents.  This  family 
assembled  at  the  notary^s.  Fouan  had  nine  hectares  and  a  half 
of  land,  and  wished  his  children  to  pay  him  a  yearly  rental 
of  nine  hundred  and  fifty  francs.  Quarreling  and  bargaining 
broke  out  instantly.  After  calculating  how  much  his  food, 
clothing,  tobacco,  and  small  dainties  would  cost,  and  their 
mother's  keep,  the  children  tried  to  cut  it  down  to  about  half 
that  sum;  but  Fouan  declared  that  he  would  have  six  hundred 
francs  or  he  would  sell  it  and  squander  the  money  so  that  they 
would  receive  not  a  penny.  As  for  the  hoard,  which  Buteau 
assumed  that  he  had,  and  which  should  be  deducted  from  the 
annuity,  the  old  man  vehemently  protested  that  he  did  not 
possess  such  a  thing,  even  to  the  extent  of  one  sou. 

The  Fouans  had  been  serfs  in  ancient  days  but  had  risen  in 
the  course  of  centuries  to  the  rank  of  petty  peasant  proprietors. 
This  old  Louis  Fouan  had  married  a  woman  with  land;  so  had 
Marianne,  his  sister,  commonly  called  "La  Grande."  Michel, 
called  Father  Mouche  ("Fly"),  had  not  done  so  well;  but  he  had 
inherited  the  family  home,  and  there  he  and  his  daughters,  Fran- 
foise  and  Lise  now  lived.  La  Grande  was  much  respected  and 
feared  in  the  family,  not  so  much  because  of  her  age  (eighty)  as 
because  of  her  fortune.  She  had  turned  her  daughter  out  of 
the  house  because  the  girl  insisted  on  marrying  a  poor  man,  and 
even  when  the  daughter  and  her  husband  died  in  misery,  leav- 
ing two  children,  La  Grande  would  not  forgive,  and  allowed 
Palmyre  and  Hilarion,  now  aged  respectively  thirty-two  and 
twenty-four,  to  starve  along  as  best  they  could. 

La  Grande  predicted  no  good  from  this  division  of  the  Fouan 
land.  The  surveyor  was  summoned  from  a  neighboring  village 
and  plotted  out  the  land  into  three  parcels  (after  much  wran- 
gling, as  Buteau  was  determined  to  secure  the  best  throughout), 
for  which  Fouan's  children  drew  lots  after  the  parcels  had  been 
numbered.    Fanny  drew  number  one,  Hyacinthe  drew  number 


378 


THE  LAND 


two,  but  Buteau,  finding  that  number  three  had  fallen  to  him, 
flatly  refused  either  to  draw  it  or  to  accept  the  situation.  In  all 
this  afifair  Lise  and  Fran^oise,  Buteau^s  cousins,  took  a  deep 
interest,  because  they  hoped  that  if  he  got  the  land  he  would 
marry  Lise,  as  he  was  in  honor  bound  to  do. 

Not  long  after  this  partition,  Jean,  on  his  way  from  Cloyes, 
found  Mouche  in  a  fit  of  apoplexy,  being  drawn  along  the  road 
in  his  cart  by  the  unguided  horse.  He  took  him  home  to  his 
daughters  and  drove  back  to  Cloyes  to  get  the  physician.  But 
it  was  too  late ;  Mouche  died  before  the  doctor's  arrival.  Jean's 
kindness  on  this  occasion  cemented  the  growing  friendship  be- 
tween him  and  the  orphaned  Lise  and  Franfoise. 

Jean  gradually  became  a  frequent  and  helpful  visitor,  and 
enjoyed  being  at  the  house,  without  asking  himself  what  at- 
tracted him.  Lise  was  cheerful  and  very  strong  and  capable, 
though  she  had  grown  homely  since  the  birth  of  her  boy.  One 
day  it  occurred  to  Jean  that  he  would  marry  Lise;  Buteau 
evidently  did  not  intend  to,  and  she  might  keep  the  child  for 
good.  An  accident  prevented  his  making  his  proposal  on  the 
spot,  but  a  week  later  he  came  for  the  express  purpose.  Lise 
hesitated  to  accept,  merely  because  she  still  hoped  that  Buteau 
would  do  his  duty  by  her.  Old  Fouan  advised  her  to  leave  the 
matter  open.  By  this  time  Jean  had  discovered  that  he  liked 
to  go  to  the  house  because  of  Fran^oise;  but  he  was  fifteen 
years  older  than  she,  and  she  was  so  very  young.  He  was  in 
despair. 

Two  years  passed.  Buteau  still  persisted  in  refusing  to  ac- 
cept his  share,  and  still  had  not  married  Lise.  But  now  matters 
took  a  different  turn.  Monsieur  Ch^d^ville,  the  deputy,  wished 
to  be  reelected,  and  promised  to  obtain  a  subsidy  for  half  the 
cost  of  a  new  road,  long  projected,  which  would  cut  off  two 
leagues  on  the  way  to  town,  and,  incidentally,  would  greatly 
heighten  the  value  of  certain  land.  The  subsidy  was  granted, 
and  the  road  was  made.  One  result  of  this  was  that  Lise  and 
Franfoise  received  five  hundred  francs  for  a  part  of  their  land 
which  was  taken;  and  the  share  of  land  which  had  fallen  to 
Buteau  profited  greatly  by  being  rendered  accessible,  as  did  the 
remainder  of  Lise  and  Franfoise's  land.  Some  of  the  neighbors 
suggested  that  Buteau  might  now  marry  Lise,  who  had  become 


fiMILE  ZOLA  379 

a  good  match.  In  fact,  shortly  afterward,  when  she  and  Fran- 
foise,  accompanied  by  Jean,  drove  to  Cloyes  to  buy  a  cow,  they 
encountered  Buteau,  who  showed  himself  very  friendly,  helped 
purchase  the  cow  at  a  bargain,  with  a  few  indirect  words  settled 
that  he  would  marry  Lise,  and  ended  by  driving  her  home.  Ere 
long  the  wedding  was  celebrated  in  festive  style.  Old  Fouan 
had  insisted,  the  very  day  after  the  wedding,  on  having  Fran- 
foise's  share  set  apart  from  Lise's,  in  order  to  avoid  future 
trouble.  Buteau  objected;  Franjoise  was  too  young,  she  would 
Hve  with  her  sister  as  before,  she  did  not  need  the  land.  Fouan 
could  not  effect  the  partition. 

The  sisters  had  always  been  remarkably  attached  to  each 
other,  but  about  ten  months  after  the  marriage  relations  began 
tO  be  strained  between  them.  Fran^oise  threatened  to  go 
away,  and  tried  to  have  the  partition  of  the  property  made. 
Buteau  succeeded  in  deferring  it  again,  telling  her  that  she 
should  have  it  the  day  she  married.  The  Delhommes  paid  to 
Fouan  the  proper  two  hundred  francs,  every  quarter,  with  ex- 
emplary regularity.  Hyacinthe  made  no  pretense  to  paying  a 
sou  from  the  start.  The  provisions  agreed  upon  in  the  con- 
tract were  cut  down  nearly  half  in  amount  and  were  bad  in 
quality.  Buteau  was  always  late,  and  one  day  he  paid  only 
three-fifths  of  his  due,  and  old  Rose,  alarmed  at  the  scene  be- 
tween her  husband  and  her  son,  persuaded  the  former  to  accept. 
Hyacinthe  entered  before  Fouan  had  time  to  conceal  the  money, 
and,  being  his  mother's  favorite,  managed  to  get  a  good  share 
of  it.  Buteau,  having  caught  sight  of  his  brother  as  he  entered, 
returned  and  demanded  that  his  money,  just  paid,  be  shown 
to  him.  After  a  terrible  scene,  he  upbraided  his  mother  and 
knocked  her  down.  Two  days  later  she  died,  and  after  that 
Buteau  failed  to  pay  rent  altogether. 

For  a  year  old  Fouan  lived  silent  and  solitary  in  his  deserted 
house,  walking  about  incessantly,  his  hands  trembling,  and  do- 
ing nothing.  It  occurred  to  Delhomme  that  it  would  be  good 
for  his  father-in-law  to  live  with  him  and  Fanny,  and  then  they 
would  not  be  obliged  to  pay  their  rent.  Buteau  heard  of  it,  and, 
fearing  lest  his  sister  should  get  possession  of  the  hoard  he  sus- 
pected, hastened  to  claim  his  father.  The  old  man  resisted;  but 
the  notary  advised  him  to  sell  his  house  and  live  with  one  of  his 


38o  THE  LAND 

children,  if  he  did  not  wish  to  be  stripped  by  Hyacinthe.  He 
did  so,  and  went  to  live  with  the  Delhommes. 

Meanwhile  matters  had  grown  critical  between  Franfoise 
and  Buteau  and  his  wife.  Buteau  persecuted  Franjoise;  Lise 
was  jealous,  but  they  agreed  that  it  was  expedient  to  keep  the 
girl,  lest,  if  she  departed,  she  might  secure  a  partition  of  the 
property.  They  made  a  slave  of  her,  working  her  almost  be- 
yond endurance.  Fran^oise,  strong  of  character,  and  reticent, 
told  Jean,  when  he  remonstrated,  that  she  was  determined  to 
bear  everything  until  she  attained  her  majority,  when  the  day 
of  reckoning  would  come.  Jean  proposed  for  her  to  Lise,  who 
favored  the  suit;  but  when  he  asked  her  guardian,  old  Fouan, 
Buteau  intervened  with  such  violence  that  a  terrible  battle  with 
flails  ensued  between  the  men,  and  Jean,  with  one  blow,  broke 
Buteau's  arm. 

Shortly  after  this  old  Fouan  abruptly  quitted  the  Delhommes 
and  went  to  live  with  Buteau.  Buteau  never  had  paid  a  sou  of 
rent  during  the  old  man's  residence  with  the  Delhommes,  and 
Delhomme  no  longer  paid  any.  The  old  man  was  not  happy 
otherwise;  Fanny  was  a  very  neat  housekeeper  and  was  con- 
stantly reprimanding  her  father  for  his  untidy  ways.  He  was 
unable  to  endure  this,  and  life  with  the  detested  Buteau  seemed 
alluring  to  him.  But  Fanny  predicted  that  he  would  return  to 
beg  for  shelter  with  her,  and  vowed  that  she  would  never  be  the 
first  to  address  a  word  to  him  again.  At  first  the  Buteaus,  in 
their  triumph,  stuffed  the  old  man  with  food  and  paid  him  great 
respect;  and  as  they  did  not  interfere  with  his  unclean  habits 
even  the  corner  of  the  dark  shed  for  vegetables  and  refuse,  damp, 
freezing,  where  they  lodged  him,  seemed  to  him  good.  It  had 
been  agreed  that  he  should  hand  over  to  Buteau  Delhomme 's 
two  hundred  francs,  and  the  quarterly  thirty-seven  which  he 
received  as  interest  on  the  price  of  his  house.  One  day,  as  he 
was  returning  from  a  visit  to  the  notary,  Hyacinthe  (unper- 
ceived  by  the  old  man)  saw  him  counting  over  a  considerable 
sum  by  the  roadside.  That  night  old  Fouan  had  a  violent 
quarrel  with  Buteau  on  the  subject  of  his  persecution  of  Fran- 
foise;  and  as  he  had  accidentally  separated  his  money  wrongly, 
and  omitted  a  five-franc  piece  from  the  quarterly  sum,  Buteau 
called  him  a  thief  and  told  him  he  was  a  burden  and  a  nuisance. 


fiMILE  ZOLA  381 

Buteau  even  flung  him  on  the  floor.  The  next  morning,  without 
a  word,  he  betook  himself  to  Hyacinthe,  who  dwelt  in  a  miser- 
able cellar,  formed  by  three  walls  of  a  ruined  castle,  sodded 
over,  and  finished  on  the  fourth  side  with  a  rude  embankment. 
There  he  was  systematically  robbed  by  his  son,  under  one  pre- 
text or  another;  and  convinced  by  what  he  had  seen  that  old 
Fouan  had  a  hoard  in  bonds  of  some  sort,  Hyacinthe  made  his 
keen,  adroit  young  daughter  search  constantly  for  it.  Buteau 
became  very  affectionate,  tried  to  lure  his  father  back  by  promis- 
ing him  a  pension  and  all  the  little  comforts  to  which  the  old 
man  was  entitled  by  the  original  agreement,  but  of  which  he  had 
been  pitilessly  deprived.  Old  Fouan  took  fright,  and  pre- 
ferred his  misery  with  Hyacinthe,  although  he  had  discovered 
that  his  son  and  his  granddaughter  were  determined  to  find  and 
appropriate  his  papers,  particularly  after  he  had  overheard 
Buteau  tell  his  wife  that  they  must  get  hold  of  the  old  man  and 
his  money. 

Franfoise,  after  a  fashion,  had  promised  to  marry  Jean  on 
attaining  her  majority.  The  state  of  affairs  in  the  Buteau 
household  was  so  terrible  that  Lise  would  have  been  glad  to  get 
her  sister  out  of  the  house,  even  at  the  cost  of  surrendering  the 
girl's  just  half  of  the  property;  but  Buteau  implacably  opposed 
this,  and  tried  to  arrange  matters  so  that  Franfoise  would  be 
unable  to  marry  anyone,  would  be  forced  to  remain  with  them 
as  their  slave.  A  fortnight  before  the  girl  attained  her  majority, 
Lise  provoked  such  a  quarrel  that  Fran$:oise  left  the  house  and 
betook  herself  to  service  with  the  tavern-keeper.  But  Buteau 
made  such  a  scene,  even  dragging  Fran^oise  from  the  tavern  by 
her  hair,  that  the  landlord  refused  to  keep  her,  and  turned  her 
out.  La  Grande,  happening  along  at  this  moment,  took  the 
girl  to  her  house,  under  guise  of  relationship  and  kindness.  In 
reality  she  saw  an  unparalleled  opportunity  to  make  mischief, 
which  she  delighted  in;  also  to  secure  the  services  of  Franfoise 
without  payment.  She  had  already  made  a  slave  of  her  grand- 
son, the  deformed,  half-idiotic  Hilarion,  after  his  sister  Palmyre 
had  dropped  dead  in  the  harvest-field  with  simstroke,  while 
trying  to  earn  a  scanty  living  for  herself  and  him. 

As  soon  as  Fran^oise  realized  that  she  was  intended  to  com- 
plete the  team  of  slaves  (it  was  said  that  La  Grande  harnessed 


382  THE  LAND 

Hilarion  to  the  plow)  she  suddenly  determined  to  marry  Jean, 
who  had  patiently  waited  years  for  her.  No  one  else  wanted 
her;  Buteau  had  taken  care  to  frighten  off  suitors  by  spreading 
absolutely  false,  scandalous  reports  about  her,  with  this  express 
object.  This  decision  threw  La  Grande  into  a  fever  of  pleasure- 
able  anticipations  of  the  unpleasantness  for  all  the  family  which 
she,  with  her  ingenuity  and  malice,  could  evoke  from  it.  The 
immediate  marriage,  which  she  urged,  took  place.  The  par- 
tition of  inheritance  was  to  follow  at  once,  and  Franfoise  was 
doggedly  set  upon  having  the  ancestral  house  as  part  of  her 
share.  As  no  agreement  could  be  reached  between  the  sisters, 
it  was  decided  that  the  house,  furniture,  and  cattle  should  be 
sold  at  auction.  The  land  was  surveyed  and  the  lots  were 
drawn,  the  notary,  warned  by  the  experience  with  Buteau,  in- 
sisting this  time  that  the  persons  concerned  should  sign  the 
agreement  in  advance.  Fran^oise  drew  first,  and  drew  number 
two,  to  the  extreme  wrath  of  Buteau,  since  this  gave  her  a  field 
that  separated  two  of  his.  La  Grande  insisted  upon  Franfoise 
receiving  her  share  of  the  five  hundred  francs  damages  from  the 
road,  and  high  wages  as  servant  to  the  Buteaus  for  five  years, 
which  the  enraged  Buteau  offset  by  a  demand  for  her  food  and 
clothing.  The  bitter  quarrel  became  more  bitter.  That  day 
La  Grande  had  an  inspiration:  she  hired  old  Father  Saucisse  to 
bid  in  the  house,  furniture,  and  cattle  for  Franfoise,  with  Jean's 
consent.  The  Buteaus  flung  themselves  on  the  ground  weep- 
ing with  rage  and  despair,  but  were  forced  to  move  out.  They 
hired  rooms  temporarily  with  a  neighbor  next  door,  where  they 
could  keep  watch  on  Frangoise  and  Jean  and  insult  them  con- 
stantly. At  this  juncture  old  Fouan  appeared  and  asked  the 
Buteaus  to  take  him  in.  He  knew  what  Fanny  had  said,  and 
was  determined  to  disappoint  her,  glad  as  he  would  have  been 
to  return  to  her,  rather  than  to  the  Buteaus.  But  he  no  longer 
dared  to  remain  with  Hyacinthe.  Their  search  for  his  hoard 
had  become  undisguised  and  brutal.  After  an  attack  of  faint- 
ness  and  dizziness  he  saw  that  he  should  no  longer  be  able  to 
protect  himself. 

Franfoise  and  Jean  were  not  as  happy  in  the  possession  of 
the  old  house,  or  in  their  marriage,  as  they  had  anticipated;  but 
they  lived  and  worked  together  harmoniously,  although  Fran- 


fiMILE   ZOLA  383 

foise  (who  had  always  regarded  Jean  as  an  old  man)  now 
realized  that  she  did  not  love  him,  while  the  force  of  Jean's 
passion  had  been  cooled  by  the  long  waiting-time.  The  two 
families  no  longer  spoke  to  each  other.  The  Buteaus  were  much 
crowded  in  their  lodgings,  and  the  lack  of  a  kitchen-garden 
would  have  induced  them  to  seek  another  abode  had  it  not  been 
that  they  saw  their  presence  exasperated  Franjoise.  One  day 
the  Buteaus  were  dismayed  by  a  fit  of  old  Fouan,  which  re- 
quired the  services  of  a  doctor  and  other  expenses.  The  pros- 
pect that  Hyacinthe  and  Fanny  would  make  trouble  for  them 
if  they  did  not  succeed  in  discovering  his  hoard  before  his 
death — ^which  might  not  take  place  for  three  weeks,  said  the 
doctor — appalled  them.  Lise  searched  the  pockets  of  the  sick 
man,  and  as  she  hung  up  his  clothing  she  saw  a  small  packet  of 
papers  lying  on  the  shelf. 

It  was  the  hoard  which  they  had  sought  in  vain  for  the  past 
month,  and  they  executed  an  ungainly,  goat-like  dance  of  joy. 
After  that  they  gave  him  no  more  medicine ;  but  at  the  end  of  a 
week  he  was  up  and  searching  incessantly  for  his  papers,  which 
he  remembered  to  have  left  on  the  shelf  imtil  he  could  hide  them 
in  the  crack  of  a  beam  in  the  ceiling  which  he  had  descried.  At 
last  he  made  up  his  mind  to  demand  them,  and  the  Buteaus  re- 
fused to  restore  them,  on  the  ground  that  he  might  bum  or  tear 
them  up.  The  old  man  went  about  telling  everyone,  then  he 
asked  Franjoise  to  give  him  shelter  from  the  rascals;  but  Fran- 
foise  refused  to  get  into  trouble  by  meddling.  The  next  day 
there  was  a  terrible  scene  between  Fouan  and  his  son.  Buteau 
found  the  old  man  very  near  the  hiding-place  of  the  papers,  in 
his  search  for  them,  and  turned  him  out  of  doors.  Late  that 
night,  after  hours  spent  in  the  wind  and  rain,  the  old  man 
knocked  at  the  door  of  his  sister,  La  Grande,  being  still  obsti- 
nately determined  not  to  return  to  Fanny  or  Hyacinthe.  The 
old  woman,  aged  eighty-seven,  had  just  been  attacked  by  her 
half-crazy  grandson,  whom  she  so  shamelessly  underfed  and 
overworked,  and  had  killed  him  with  a  blow  of  her  ax.  She 
simply  told  Fouan  that  he  had  been  a  fool  to  give  up  his  land  and 
not  conceal  his  hoard,  and  refused  to  receive  him.  He  spent 
the  night  out  of  doors,  tortured  with  cold,  and  especially  with 
hunger,  wondering  whether  it  would  take  long  to  die.     The 


384  THE   LAND 

next  night  he  returned  to  the  Buteaus  as  they  were  at  table. 
They  took  him  in,  but  Buteau  warned  him  not  to  repeat  his 
escapade  or  he  would  be  allowed  to  die  of  hunger  on  the  road. 
Thenceforth  old  Fouan  never,  under  any  circumstances,  uttered 
a  word  to  any  of  the  family.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his 
papers,  no  longer  searched  for  them,  and  ate  his  food  apart, 
never  again  sitting  at  table  with  the  family.  He  spent  his  days 
motionless  in  the  sun,  trying  to  warm  himself,  and  Fanny  passed 
him  by  stiffly  without  a  glance. 

The  winter  work  was  nearly  over  when,  one  afternoon  in 
February,  Jean  left  his  plow  in  the  field  that  exasperated  the 
Buteaus,  and  drove  his  horse  over  to  La  Borderie  to  get  some 
seed-wheat  of  a  new  sort  that  Hourdequin  had  offered  him.  He 
had  been  reflecting  on  all  the  miseries  he  had  endured  for  the 
past  ten  years.  He  felt  that  he  was  still  regarded  as  a  stranger 
at  Rognes,  even  by  his  wife.  Shortly  after  their  marriage, 
Franfoise,  exasperated  against  the  Buteaus,  had  brought  back 
from  Cloyes  a  sheet  of  stamped  paper,  with  the  intention  of 
making  her  will  and  leaving  everything  to  Jean,  having  been 
told  that  if  she  were  to  die  childless  only  the  ready  money  and 
the  furniture  would  be  considered  common  property  with  her 
husband,  and  her  sister  would  inherit  all  the  rest  unless  she  made 
a  will.  Then,  without  giving  him  any  explanation,  she  seemed 
to  have  changed  her  mind,  and  the  blank  sheet  still  lay  in  the 
bureau  drawer.  This  had  caused  Jean  much  secret  chagrin, 
not  that  he  was  greedy,  but  because  it  denoted  a  lack  of  affection. 

While  he  was  at  the  farm  that  afternoon,  Franfoise  decided 
to  go  and  cut  some  lucerne  for  her  cows  in  the  field  next  to 
that  where  Jean  was  working.  The  horse  could  bring  it  back. 
On  arriving  at  the  field,  she  was  surprised  not  to  see  Jean  (whom 
she  had  not  informed  of  her  intention),  but  recognized  Buteau 
and  Lise  standing  in  front  of  it,  waving  their  arms  in  a  rage. 
They  never  could  forgive  her  for  owning  that  field  which  cut 
their  field  in  two.  Frangoise  felt  inclined  to  retrace  her  steps, 
but  was  angry  with  herself  for  her  fear,  feeling  that  she  had  a 
right  to  go  to  her  own  field,  and  she  continued  to  advance,  with 
her  sickle  on  her  shoulder. 

The  Buteaus  had  heard  from  La  Grande  about  the  will  that 
Frangoise  had  planned  but  had  not  made;  but  they  never  had 


fiMILE  ZOLA  385 

any  luck,  they  said  to  each  other,  for  now  the  young  wife  was 
with  child,  and  if  the  child  was  born  no  will  was  necessary.  If 
Franfoise  and  the  child  would  only  die,  what  a  stroke  of  justice 
on  the  part  of  the  good  God!  That  day,  when  Franfoise  made 
no  reply  to  Lise's  insults,  the  matter  proceeded  to  violence  on 
the  part  of  Lise  and  Buteau;  and  suddenly  Lise  caught  sight  of 
Fran^oise's  sickle  lying  point  upward  among  the  lucerne,  where 
it  had  fallen  some  time  before.  In  a  flash  she  hurled  Franfoise 
upon  it  with  all  her  strength,  and  the  point  entered  deeply  into 
the  young  woman's  side.  Thinking  she  was  dead,  they  fled 
precipitately,  and  Jean,  arriving  a  few  moments  later,  found  his 
wife  bathed  in  blood.  Old  Fouan,  who  had  been  concealed 
close  by,  unknown  to  the  Buteaus,  now  approached.  But  Jean 
could  learn  nothing.  Franjoise,  with  a  significant  glance  at  her 
uncle,  said  that  she  had  fallen  on  her  sickle,  and  old  Fouan  con- 
firmed her  assertion.  She  was  taken  home,  and  lingered  a  short 
time.  The  case  was  hopeless;  but  she  said  no  word  before  she 
died,  and  tacitly  rejected  her  husband's  suggestion  that  she 
make  a  will.    The  land  must  go  to  her  own  people. 

As  soon  as  she  died,  Buteau  and  Lise  made  their  appearance 
and  practically  resumed  possession  of  the  house.  When  Jean 
returned  from  the  funeral,  he  was  not  admitted.  They  refused 
him  his  rights  in  the  furniture,  called  him  a  thief  for  having  taken 
a  small  sum  in  cash  which  he  had  saved,  and  only  after  much 
recrimination  and  difficulty  did  they  surrender  to  him  his  over- 
coat and  two  pairs  of  trousers.  He  knew  the  truth  now  about 
his  wife's  death;  old  Fouan  had  dropped  a  word,  which  the 
Buteaus  had  heard  also,  and  had  enlightened  him  as  to  the 
facts,  and  the  Buteaus  as  to  the  existence  of  a  dangerous  wit- 
ness, who  in  his  dotage  might  inform  the  neighbors  and  get  them 
into  trouble.  That  night — the  first  night  in  the  reconquered 
house — ^the  Buteaus  smothered  old  Fouan  with  a  pillow.  Then, 
finding  his  face  purple,  and  that  detection  was  inevitable,  they 
partly  burned  the  body  (the  vegetable-shed  was  too  damp  to 
bum  and  endanger  the  house),  arranging  a  candle  and  some 
bits  of  paper  so  that  it  would  appear  that  he  had  set  himself  on 
fire  while  examining  his  bonds.  By  this  means,  also,  they  were 
enabled  to  retain  the  whole  of  the  hoard,  instead  of  sharing  it, 
as  it  would  be  supposed  that  the  bonds  were  burned.    Jean 

A.D.,  VOL.  xvn. — 25 


386  THE   LAND 

divined  the  truth,  as  he  watched  the  old  man's  burial  next  to 
his  wife.  He  had  gone  to  the  cemetery  for  a  last  visit  to  her 
grave  before  leaving  forever  that  Beauce  where  he  would  always 
be  a  stranger.  The  Franco-Prussian  war  had  just  broken  out, 
and  although  he  was  exempt  from  conscription,  he  decided  to 
return  to  his  old  career  of  soldier  and  serve  his  country  patriot- 
ically in  that  manner,  since  it  was  decreed  that  he  could  not 
serve  it  by  cultivating  its  soil. 


L 


THE  DOWNFALL   (1892) 
{Le  Debdcle) 

This  story  concerns  itself  with  the  war  of  iSyo-'yi  between  France  and 
Prussia.  On  its  publication  it  aroused  a  tempest  of  wrath  throughout  France, 
and  made  of  the  French  army  a  bitter  enemy  to  Zola.  On  the  other  hand  it  is 
considered  to  be  one  of  the  great  arguments  against  war  because  of  its  detailed 
and  terrible  pictures  of  what  war  really  is.  The  novel,  though  complete  in 
itself,  is  one  of  the  Rougon-Macquart  series. 

[he  day  was  drawing  to  its  end,  and  from  a  remote 
corner  of  the  camp  the  call  for  retreat  sounded. 
Corporal  Jean  Macquart,  who  had  been  securing 
his  tent,  rose  to  his  feet.  He  had  been  a  soldier 
earlier  in  life,  but  after  the  victory  of  Solferino 
had  been  glad  to  leave  the  army.  Now,  however, 
his  wife  was  dead,  he  had  lost  the  property  she 
had  brought  him,  and  had  neither  trade  nor  call- 
ing. As  well  go  and  have  a  shot  at  the  enemy 
and  defend  her,  his  country,  the  old  land  of  France. 

Maurice  Levasseur,  a  grandson  of  a  hero  of  the  Grand  Army, 
was  one  of  his  squad.  He  had  a  twin  sister,  Henriette,  married 
to  a  young  fellow  called  Weiss,  who  was  at  that  moment  con- 
versing with  Maurice,  for  the  army  was  encamped  near  the  town 
of  Muelhousen,  where  Weiss  had  come  on  business. 

It  was  the  night  of  the  sixth  of  August.  On  the  third  had 
occurred  the  victory  of  Sambruck,  and  two  days  later  the  defeat 
of  Wissenbourg.  At  present  another  battle  was  being  fought, 
and  news  was  anxiously  awaited,  although  everyone  seemed 
confident  that  the  Prussians  had  been  soundly  whipped  by  this 
time. 

"  We've  certainly  given  them  a  good  drubbing,"  Maurice  was 
saying  to  Weiss. 

But  Weiss,  who  was  an  Alsatian,  knew  better  how  matters 
stood.    In  a  sorrowful  voice  he  told  his  brother-in-law  that, 

387 


388  THE   DOWNFALL 

though  he  indeed  hoped  it  might  be  so,  he  feared  the  result 
would  be  only  too  dififerent.  The  French  had  been  so  dilatory 
that  they  had  given  the  Germans  ample  time  to  concentrate  all 
their  forces  on  the  other  side  of  the  river.  Prussia  had  steadily 
increased  her  resources  since  Sadowa.  She  was  a  nation  of 
trained  soldiers,  possessed  of  all  the  modern  arms  and  engines 
of  warfare,  and  proud  of  the  crushing  defeat  she  had  adminis- 
tered to  Austria.  Then  he  pointed  to  France,  with  her  ailing 
and  vacillating  Emperor,  her  army,  brave,  but  vitiated  by  the 
system  that  permitted  men  to  purchase  substitutes,  with  whose 
utter  lack  of  preparation  she  was  rushing  onward  to  this 
war. 

The  night  passed  heavily  for  Maurice,  with  a  sense  of  impend- 
ing trouble,  which  seemed  somehow  to  have  settled  down  over 
the  entire  waiting  army.  Then  as  the  pale  dawn  approached 
came  dreadful  news.  MacMahon  was  beaten  at  Froeschwiller, 
Frossard  defeated  at  Spickeren,  and  France  lay  open  to  the 
Prussian  advance!  What  seemed  certain  information  of  the 
speedy  approach  of  an  overwhelming  Prussian  force  caused  the 
order  of  retreat  to  be  given.  The  soldiers  were  not  allowed  time 
to  eat,  but  hungry,  tired,  and  sullen,  were  hurried  back  on  the 
road  they  had  so  recently  traversed.  When,  three  days  later, 
exhausted  and  demoralized,  they  reached  Belfort,  it  was  to  find 
that  the  news  that  had  precipitated  their  retreat  was  false. 

Maurice's  regiment,  the  io6th  of  the  line,  was  held  at  Bel- 
fort  a  week  and  then  shipped  by  train  to  Rheims,  on  the  way  to 
Chalons.  Here  Maurice  met  men  who  had  been  at  Froeschwil- 
ler and  Wissembourg.  They  were  full  of  blame  for  their  officers, 
whom  they  accused  of  utter  inefficiency.  Everywhere  discipline 
seemed  relaxed  and  no  one  trusted  anyone  else. 

On  the  twenty-third  day  of  August  the  army,  something  over 
a  hundred  thousand  strong,  once  more  took  up  the  march  to  the 
front.  The  Emperor  was  forced  to  this  move — a  most  unfor- 
tunate, indeed  a  hopeless  one — ^by  Paris  and  by  the  Empress. 
Maurice,  who  had  studied  the  situation  carefully,  realized  this, 
and  imparted  his  conviction  to  Corporal  Jean.  Both  looked 
for  disaster,  but  determined  to  face  the  matter  with  courage. 
Three  days  later,  after  a  march  of  great  hardships,  the  footsore 
and  half-starving  army  was  halted  after  crossing  the  Aisne,  near 


fiMILE   ZOLA  389 

Vouzibres.  Maurice  knew  the  entire  country  thereabout,  since 
he  had  been  born  at  Chene,  not  far  away. 

At  dawn  the  next  day  General  Dumont  arrived  with  the  long- 
expected  Third  Division.  Intelligence  received  made  it  more 
and  more  certain  that  the  Prussians  were  close  at  hand.  Two 
armies  were  said  to  be  converging  toward  them,  and  the  rumors 
became  constantly  more  frequent  and  discouraging.  In  spite 
of  the  men's  desire  for  a  fight,  a  feeling  of  disquiet  and  consterna- 
tion began  to  be  general. 

The  following  night  the  troops  were  allowed  no  sleep,  as 
an  attack  was  expected  hourly.  Nothing  happened,  however. 
Weary  and  anxious,  the  men  waited  through  the  next  day.  At 
five  o'clock  there  was  a  sigh  of  relief.  Wiser  counsels  had  pre- 
vailed and  the  order  to  retreat  was  given.  Outmarched  and 
outmaneuvered,  having  the  army  of  the  Prince  of  Saxony  as 
well  as  that  of  the  Crown  Prince  to  contend  with,  the  Emperor 
and  MacMahon  had  renounced  the  hazardous  scheme  of  uniting 
their  forces  with  those  of  Bazaine,  the  commander  of  Metz.  It 
never  had  been  to  their  liking,  but  was  insisted  upon  by  the 
Empress  and  by  Paris.  It  was  now  decided  that  they  would 
retreat  to  Paris,  under  the  walls  of  which  all,  officers  and  men, 
felt  they  would  be  invincible;  that  there  the  Prussians  would 
meet  their  inevitable  defeat. 

Maurice,  incapacitated  by  a  sore  foot,  was  allowed  to  go  on 
to  Chene  in  a  farmer's  cart  and  await  the  army  there.  He 
found  lodging  with  Combette,  an  old  friend.  The  Emperor  was 
quartered  across  the  street,  and  couriers  were  coming  and  going 
continually.  For  a  while  Maurice  w^atched  the  excitement,  but 
at  last  fell  into  an  exhausted  sleep.  In  the  dead  of  night  he  was 
awakened  by  the  sound  of  marching  feet.  What  could  have 
happened?  Hastily  dressing,  he  was  about  to  go  out  when 
Combette  appeared  with  the  news  that  everything  was  upset 
again.  A  fresh  change  of  plans  had  been  announced.  A  mes- 
sage from  the  Minister  of  War  had  announced  that  if  the  retreat 
was  persisted  in  there  would  be  a  revolution  in  Paris.  The 
despatch,  which  evinced  the  utmost  ignorance  as  to  the  position 
of  the  German  armies  and  the  resources  of  the  Army  of  Chalons, 
ordered  an  immediate  forward  movement,  regardless  of  all  con- 
sequences, with  a  heat  and  fury  that  seemed  incredible. 


390  THE   DOWNFALL 

Maurice  had  to  hasten  to  rejoin  his  regiment,  which,  under 
the  altered  orders,  would  not  pass  through  Chene.  On  his  ap- 
pearance he  was  greeted  with  amazement  by  Jean. 

''What,  is  it  you?     I  thought  you  were  to  wait  for  us." 

''Ah,  well,  we  are  no  longer  going  in  that  direction.  We  are 
to  be  knocked  in  the  head  down  yonder  after  all,  the  whole 
of  us." 

"Very  well,"  said  his  friend  presently,  with  a  white  face. 
"We  will  die  together,  that  is  all." 

"Heavens  and  earth!"  growled  another  soldier,  "do  they 
take  us  for  tops,  to  keep  us  spinning  like  this?"  Anger  and  dis- 
gust were  general. 

Again  the  march  was  taken  up,  with  the  same  extraordinary 
hardships.  Rations  were  lacking,  and  the  men  were  so  starved 
and  weary  that  they  dropped  in  the  ranks  by  scores.  They 
were  further  harassed  by  the  enemy's  Uhlans,  and  occasionally 
men  fleeing  from  the  fighting  in  front,  wounded  and  panic- 
struck,  added  to  the  demoralization,  disturbing  the  order  of 
march.  At  the  village  of  Rancourt  the  Prussians  entered  at 
one  end  as  the  French  left  at  the  other,  and  presently  their  bat- 
teries began  firing  from  the  position  they  had  taken  on  the  hills 
to  the  left. 

That  evening  the  io6th  camped  on  the  heights  of  Remilly, 
overlooking  the  Meuse.  Maurice,  with  the  glad  content  of  a 
man  revisiting  a  country  he  knows  and  loves,  was  talking  to 
Jean,  pointing  out  some  lights  in  the  distance. 

"Look,  there  is  Sedan — and  yonder  lies  Bazeilles,  then 
Douzy,  then  Carignan." 

"Your  sister  lives  in  Sedan?" 

"Yes,  she  and  her  husband  Weiss;  but  we  shall  not  see  her, 
for  Sedan  is  quite  out  of  our  path.  Come  with  me,  however. 
You  remember  I  told  you  I  had  a  friend  in  the  artillery,  Honor^ 
Fouchard  ?  Well,  his  father  lives  near  here.  Let  us  see  whether 
he  will  not  give  us  a  mouthful  to  eat." 

Jean  had  eaten  nothing  for  thirty-six  hours,  and  was  on  the 
point  of  fainting.  He  had  forced  Maurice,  who  had  been  light- 
headed from  suffering,  to  eat  the  small  portion  of  hardtack 
which  was  all  that  could  be  got,  and  now  he  was  at  the  end  of 
his  endurance.    The  two  friends  had  some  difficulty  in  being 


fiMILE   ZOLA  391 

admitted  to  old  Fouchard's  house,  and  might  not  have  succeeded 
in  getting  in  were  it  not  that  fortunately  Honore  himself  turned 
up  as  they  were  arguing  with  the  miser,  and  insisted  that  they 
all  be  allowed  to  enter.  Honord's  relations  with  his  father  were 
nevertheless  rather  peculiar,  he  having  left  the  house  several 
years  ago,  vowing  never  to  return  unless  his  father  would  give  his 
consent  to  his  marriage  with  an  orphan,  Silvine,  a  sweet  and 
lovely  girl  whom  old  Fouchard  had  made  a  drudge  in  the  house 
and  with  whom  Honore  had  fallen  in  love.  Broken-hearted 
with  misery  and  badly  treated  by  her  master,  Silvine  had  fallen 
a  victim  to  one  Goliah,  a  German  who  had  been  living  in  the 
neighborhood  for  some  time.  She  had  a  child  by  him,  but  he 
deserted  her  before  its  birth  and  after  his  disappearance  was 
suspected  of  being  a  Prussian  spy. 

On  hearing  of  this  Honore  had  sworn  never  to  see  Silvine 
again.  But  shortly  after  the  outbreak  of  the  war  a  letter  had 
reached  him  from  the  girl,  telling  in  the  simplest  and  most 
pathetic  language  of  her  unaltered  love  for  him  and  of  her  de- 
spair. This  gentle  and  adorable  letter,  containing  an  eternal 
farewell,  aroused  all  the  young  man's  love,  a  love  he  had  tried 
in  vain  to  crush  out  of  his  heart.  Thus,  on  finding  himself  near 
his  father's  house,  he  had  lost  no  time  in  coming  to  see  Silvine 
once  more. 

It  was  not,  however,  until  after  the  three  famished  men  had 
eaten  that  Silvine  returned  from  Rancourt,  where  she  had  gone 
on  business  for  Fouchard.  There  she  had  witnessed  the  rout  of 
the  Fifth  Corps  and  the  arrival  of  the  Bavarians.  She  was  sick 
with  horror  of  the  sights  she  had  seen — ^the  terror,  the  blood,  the 
death.  Now,  coming  suddenly  upon  Honor^,  she  shivered,  not 
daring  to  look  at  him.  But  as  soon  as  the  rest  had  left  them,  to 
get  sleep,  Honore  turned  to  her  and  begged  her  to  tell  him  every- 
thing— ^how  it  was  that  she  had  become  Goliah's  mistress; 
whether  he  had  taken  a  brutal  advantage  of  her.  But  she  could 
not  tell  how  it  had  happened.  She  would  not  lie  to  him.  She 
had  been  so  dazed,  in  such  a  terrible  apathy  after  his  departure, 
and  somehow  it  had  happened — that  was  all.  Then  she  burst 
into  tears. 

Suddenly  Honors  took  her  in  his  arms,  telling  her  that  he 
still  loved  her,  that  her  letter  lay  next  his  heart,  that  he  wanted 


392  THE   DOWNFALL 

her  for  his  wife,  and  when  the  war  was  over  he  would  come  back 
and  marry  her.  At  first  she  did  not  understand  him;  such  hap- 
piness, after  all  the  misery  of  her  life !  At  last  she  returned  his 
embrace  with  wild  joy,  and  the  two  lovers  parted,  mutually 
happy. 

When  Jean  and  Maurice  rejoined  their  regiment  they  found 

that  the  disaster  to  the  Fifth  Corps  had  caused  another  change  of 

'  ^  plans,  and  that  they  were  to  retreat  on  Sedan.     All  night  the 

army  marched,  and  it  was  not  till  five  o'clock  in  the  morning 
that  the  io6th  reached  the  city,  which  was  incredibly  crowded. 
So  utterly  exhausted  were  the  men  that  whole  regiments  fell  in 
the  streets,  slept  anywhere,  trampled  over  by  newcomers,  unable 
to  arouse  themselves  from  their  stupor.  There  was  no  issue  of 
rations,  no  provision  for  housing  the  troops.  Maurice  took  Jean 
to  his  sister's  house,  where  the  two  young  men  were  made  com- 
fortable and  welcomed  with  love  and  pity.  Jean  saw  Henriette 
for  the  first  time,  and  was  struck  by  her  gentleness  and  beauty. 
Her  presence  pervaded  the  air  like  a  caress. 

Toward  sunset,  when  the  two  soldiers  awoke,  hardly  less 
weary,  Weiss  told  them  that  their  regiment  was  on  the  plateau 
of  Floing,  and  that  he  would  accompany  them  there  and  then 
go  on  to  Bazeilles,  where  he  owned  a  house  which  he  wished 
to  barricade  in  case  the  village  were  attacked.  Henriette  was 
alarmed,  but  he  promised  to  return  immediately  if  there  were 
any  danger. 

"If  you  do  not,  you  will  see  me  there,"  she  said,  smiling  at 
him. 

Weiss  left  Jean  and  Maurice  at  Floing  and  went  on  to 
Bazeilles,  where  he  found  the  village  almost  deserted  and 
busied  himself  in  making  his  house  as  secure  as  possible.  Be- 
fore dawn  he  was  awakened  by  a  terrific  noise  and  found  that 
the  Prussian  batteries  were  firing  on  the  village.  There  was  a 
thick  fog  and  not  much  harm  was  being  done.  Weiss  deter- 
mined to  remain  for  a  while  and  see  what  they  meant  to  do. 
They  advanced  swiftly,  and  presently,  under  a  heavy  fire  from  a 
corps  of  French  marines  stationed  in  an  old  dye-house,  crossed 
the  river  and  began  to  use  their  rifles.  The  shells,  too,  began 
bursting  in  all  directions.  Weiss  saw  that  it  was  time  for  him  to 
return  to  Sedan;  a  number  of  soldiers  had  already  been  killed. 


fiMILE   ZOLA  393 

He  stopped  a  moment  to  speak  to  an  old  woman,  Fran^oise, 
known  to  him,  who  could  not  leave  because  her  little  son  was 
too  ill  with  typhoid  to  be  moved.  Suddenly  a  shell  burst  close 
beside  them,  covering  Weiss  with  dirt.  When  he  could  see 
again  Franfoise  lay  a  mangled  corpse  at  his  feet. 

A  sort  of  madness  seized  the  bourgeois  as  he  stared  at  the 
torn  and  bleeding  body.  From  within  the  house  came  the  mean- 
ings of  the  sick  child,  and  on  the  threshold  lay  the  body  of  his 
friend.  He  snatched  a  gun  from  a  dead  soldier  and  returned  to 
the  dye-house,  forgetting  his  near-sighted  eyes  that  had  kept  him 
out  of  the  army,  forgetting  everything  save  that  he  wanted  to 
kill  those  brutes,  those  devils,  who  slew  old  women  on  the 
thresholds  of  their  homes. 

The  fog  lifted  suddenly,  revealing  the  whole  valley  of  the 
Meuse,  the  forests  and  heights,  the  little  villages,  and  the  houses 
and  walls  of  Sedan.  From  Floing  came  the  roar  of  artillery  and 
all  along  the  line  the  firing  was  beginning.  Maurice's  regiment, 
after  lying  for  hours  in  a  cabbage-field  enduring  the  enemy's 
fire,  at  last  received  orders  to  charge.  With  fearful  loss  of  life 
they  reached  the  top  of  a  hill  and  lay  down  there  to  await  the 
support  of  the  artillery.  From  this  hill  Maurice  saw  that  their 
only  possible  retreat — that  along  the  road  to  Mezieres — ^was  in 
the  hands  of  the  Prussians.  It  was  a  terrible  mistake  upon 
the  part  of  the  French  leaders.  News  came  that  MacMahon 
was  wounded  and  that  Ducrot  was  commander-in-chief.  Then 
De  Wimpffen  relieved  him,  by  right  of  a  commission  from 
the  Minister  of  War.  The  army  hardly  knew  where  to  yield 
obedience. 

The  artillery  came  galloping  into  position;  Maurice  recog- 
nized Honore's  battery  and  presently  saw  Honore  himself. 
But  the  place  was  becoming  more  and  more  untenable.  Gunner 
after  gunner  fell,  horses  were  killed,  and  then  Maurice  saw 
Honore  shot  through  the  heart.  A  moment  later  his  regiment 
was  driven  down  the  hill,  with  the  loss  of  most  of  their  officers 
and  many  men.     Jean  received  a  wound  in  the  head. 

In  the  mean  time  Weiss  and  a  small  party  had  desperately 
defended  his  house,  into  which  they  had  long  ago  been  driven. 
Half  the  village  was  on  fire  and  the  streets  were  cumbered  with 
dead.    As  long  as  their  ammunition  held  out  Weiss  and  his 


394  THE   DOWNFALL 

friends  kept  the  Prussians  at  bay.  Then  the  house  was  stormed, 
and  the  two  or  three  who  were  left  ahve  were  dragged  out.  Ac- 
cording to  the  Prussian  rule,  all  non-combatants  found  with 
weapons  in  their  hands  were  instantly  shot.  Just  as  Weiss  and 
a  young  peasant  who  had  fought  with  him  were  flung  against  a 
wall  by  the  soldiers  a  woman  rushed  forward  with  a  scream  and 
flung  her  arms  about  his  neck.  It  was  Henriette,  who  had 
reached  Bazielles  after  incredible  courage  and  eflfort.  The  two 
only  had  time  for  a  passionate  embrace.  She  was  dragged  off 
by  two  Prussians  and  Weiss  was  killed  before  her  eyes. 

At  nightfall  the  broken  and  defeated  army  was  crowding 
into  Sedan.  Jean  and  Maurice  were  still  together,  the  former 
with  his  head  bound  up.  As  they  staggered  along  in  the  great 
throng  of  wounded  and  tired  men  Maurice  saw  a  young  woman 
jammed  against  a  wall  by  the  crowd.  It  was  Henriette.  Jean 
and  he  managed  to  reach  her  and  place  her  between  them.  She 
was  quite  beyond  any  feeling  of  surprise  at  this  meeting,  and  only 
said,  very  quietly: 

"They  have  shot  him.     I  was  there.     They  have  shot  him." 

During  the  night  the  Emperor  surrendered  the  army  to  the 
King  of  Prussia  and  Bismarck,  and  left  France  a  prisoner.  For 
him  the  struggle  was  over. 

Jean  and  Maurice,  with  the  rest  of  the  army,  suffered  untold 
miseries  on  the  Peninsula  of  Iges,  where  they  were  held  till  they 
could  be  transferred  to  German  prisons.  When  their  turn  came 
to  leave  they  were  able  to  escape  on  the  border  of  Belgium,  al- 
though Jean  was  again  wounded,  having  his  leg  broken  by  a 
flying  bullet  sent  after  them  by  a  vidette  into  which  they  stumbled 
at  night.  Luckily  they  found  a  horse  whose  owner  had  prob- 
ably been  killed ;  Maurice  mounted  Jean  upon  him,  and  because 
of  his  knowledge  of  the  country  was  finally  able  to  reach  old 
Fouchard's  door.  There,  to  his  surprise  and  joy,  he  found  his 
sister.  He  learned  that  a  hospital  had  been  established  close 
by  and  that  she  had  come  there  as  a  nurse.  Jean  was  uncon- 
scious from  the  pain  and  fever  of  his  shattered  leg,  and  was  put 
to  bed  in  a  disused  room  where  he  was  not  likely  to  be  discovered 
by  any  search  parties,  Henriette  and  the  hospital  doctor  being 
ready  to  take  care  of  him. 

Silvine  had  been  told  of  Honor^'s  death,  and  had  succeeded 


fiMILE   ZOLA  395 

in  finding  his  body  and  bringing  it  home  for  burial.  Her  dream 
of  happiness  was  over,  but  she  was  at  peace,  since  she  knew  that 
Honor^  had  died  loving  her.  Maurice  told  her  what  he  had  seen 
on  the  field  of  battle.  Next  day,  feeling  that  he  must  return  to 
fight  the  hated  Prussians,  he  bade  them  all  good-by,  and  wearing 
the  gray  blouse  and  red  cross  of  a  hospital  assistant  departed  for 
Paris. 

The  months  passed  slowly,  marked  by  suffering  and  blood- 
shed. Jean  was  near  death's  door,  and  all  through  the  bitter 
winter  Henriette  cared  for  him  with  the  utmost  devotion.  Paris 
was  besieged  and  no  news  came  from  Maurice.  But  one  day 
Goliah  turned  up,  and  demanded  of  Silvine  that  he  be  again  re- 
ceived as  her  lover.  If  she  refused  he  would  take  from  her  her 
little  son,  and  moreover  betray  Jean,  whose  whereabouts  he 
knew.  Silvine,  frantic  between  fear  and  loathing,  promised  to 
leave  her  window  open  on  a  certain  night,  as  he  commanded. 
But  she  managed  to  convey  intelligence  of  this  to  a  party  of 
jranc-tireurs  who  were  in  hiding  in  the  woods  and  hills.  They 
arranged  a  trap,  and  when  Goliah  crawled  in  at  Silvine 's  window 
they  sprang  upon  him  and  bound  and  gagged  the  wretch.  Then 
they  carried  him  to  the  kitchen  and  cut  his  throat  over  a  tub,  as 
one  slaughters  a  pig. 

Paris  was  going  through  all  the  terrors  of  the  siege  and  grow- 
ing internal  revolution.  As  the  winter  passed  the  citizens  lost 
all  faith  in  the  army,  and  after  the  armistice  of  the  eighteenth  of 
January,  followed  by  the  disaster  to  Bourbaki's  army,  which 
was  driven  into  Switzerland,  and  the  publishing  of  the  terms  of 
capitulation,  a  howl  of  rage  went  up  from  every  throat. 

Maurice  deserted  from  the  army  without  waiting  for  the  order 
to  disperse,  and  hired  for  himself  a  small  room  in  the  Rue  des 
Orties.  He  had  written  Henriette  after  the  armistice,  and  re- 
ceived many  letters  begging  him  to  come  home.  But  it  did  not 
seem  possible  to  him  that  he  could  leave  Paris.  On  the  first 
of  March  the  Prussians  entered  Paris,  taking  possession  of  the 
quarter  of  the  Champs  Elysees,  where  they  were  to  remain  only 
one  day. 

On  the  eighteenth  of  March  Maurice  met  Jean  in  the  street. 
The  latter  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  rejoin  the  army  and  had 
been  assigned  to  the  104th,  with  his  old  rank  of  corporal.     The 


396  THE   DOWNFALL 

two  friends  embraced  each  other.     Jean  asked  Maurice  to  come 

with  him,  but  Maurice  had  thrown  in  his  fortunes  with  the 

v'  citizens  and  refused.     They  parted,  yielding  to  that  fataHty  that 

I  decreed  their  separation,  but  none  the  less  firmly  seated  in  each 

(  other's  hearts. 

]  The  Commune  was  gradually  taking  possession  of  Paris  and 

j  set  itself  to  defeat  the  government  under  Thiers.     All  through 

April  the  fighting  continued,  and  May  still  saw  the  terribly  inter- 
necine war  going  on.  On  the  twenty-third  of  May  the  army 
captured  Montmartre.  It  was  war  to  the  knife  between  the 
rebels  dying  for  an  idea  and  the  soldiers  furious  at  being  kept  so 
long  in  the  field.  All  day  the  fighting  continued.  Maurice  saw 
that  they  must  lose ;  he  hoped  now  only  to  kill  as  many  of  the  op- 
pressors as  possible  before  his  own  death,  which  he  desperately 
desired.  The  city  was  in  flames,  the  whole  world  seemed  to  be 
falling  to  pieces. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  day  Jean  came  charging  down  the 
Rue  du  Bac  at  the  head  of  a  squad.  Leaping  over  a  barrier,  he 
saw  a  man  in  the  act  of  firing  and  drove  a  bayonet  through  his 
body.     It  was  Maurice,  who  gave  a  cry  and  turned  his  head. 

^'Oh,  Jean,  dear  boy,  is  it  you?" 

Jean  cast  himself  on  the  ground  at  his  side,  sobbing,  feeling 
him,  trying  to  raise  him. 

^'My  boy!     My  poor,  poor  boy!'' 

Through  the  blazing  city  Jean  carried  Maurice  to  the  room 
in  the  Rue  des  Orties.  It  was  a  terrible  journey,  but  at  last  he 
got  there  and  laid  the  fainting  body  of  his  friend  on  the  bed.  As 
he  knelt  beside  him  sobbing  as  if  his  heart  would  break,  some- 
one came  in  and  stood  beside  him.  He  was  not  surprised  to  see 
that  it  was  Henriette.  Her  brother  was  dying — ^what  so  natural 
as  that  she  should  come  ?  He  sank  into  a  chair  and  watched  her 
stupidly  as  she  hovered  over  Maurice.  Then  she  came  toward 
him,  holding  out  her  httle  hands,  turning  to  him  for  comfort,  to 
him,  her  friend,  whom  she  had  brought  back  to  Hfe  through  the 
long  winter. 

^*  It  was  I  who  killed  him,"  said  Jean. 

She  did  not  understand ;  he  had  to  repeat  it  many  times :  "  It 
was  I,  I  who  did  not  know  him — ^I  who  love  him." 

At  last  a  look  of  horror  came  into  her  eyes  and  she  drew  back. 


fiMILE  ZOLA  397 

Maurice  regained  consciousness  and  recognized  his  sister  with 
a  smile. 

"You  here?     I  am  glad  to  see  you  before  I  die.'' 

"Hush!  You  must  not  die;  I  will  not  allow  it.  We  will  be 
happy  yet,  we  three." 

But  Maurice  lingered  only  a  few  days.  While  Paris  accom- 
plished her  atonement  of  blood  and  fire,  he  sank.  On  Sunday 
Jean,  returning  from  a  short  absence,  found  him  dead,  with 
Henriette  weeping  over  him. 

At  this  moment  of  supreme  grief  their  eyes  met,  and  each 
w^as  stricken  with  consternation  at  what  they  read.  He  knew 
now  that  he  had  dreamed  that  with  her  for  a  wife  this  world 
would  have  been  an  earthly  paradise.  And  she  realized  that  it 
was  love,  not  sisterly  devotion,  which  she  bore  to  this  young 
man.  The  cruel  war  had  done  its  worst  to  her;  she  had  seen 
Weiss  shot;  Maurice  lay  dead  before  her;  it  needed  only  this 
frightful  sacrifice,  the  rending  of  their  heart-strings  by  this 
supreme  parting.  For  their  love,  thus  openly  expressed,  could 
have  but  one  fruition — an  eternal  farewell. 

"Farewell!"  said  Jean.  Henriette  stood  motionless.  "Fare- 
well!" he  repeated,  with  a  sob. 

"Farewell!"  she  murmured,  and  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands. 

And  Jean,  bearing  his  heavy  affliction  humbly,  went  his  way, 
to  take  up,  with  countless  others,  that  arduous  task  of  building 
up  a  new  France  on  the  ruins  of  the  old. 


FRUITFULNESS   (1899) 
{La  Fecondite) 

In  the  triology  of  novels,  Lourdes,  Rome,  and  Paris,  Zola  aimed  at  presenting 
the  virtues  of  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity.  As  a  sequel  to  this,  he  conceived  a 
tetralogy  vi^hich  should  be,  as  it  were,  the  four  gospels  of  the  "new  religion" 
for  which  Pierre  Froment  clamored  at  the  end  of  Paris.  These  four  novels 
were  to  be  FruUfulness,  Work,  Truth,  and  Justice.  The  last  named  was  the 
only  one  not  written  when  death  put  an  end  to  the  author's  career.  Zola  said 
of  this  tetralogy:  "The  heroes  in  them  are  named,  respectively,  Matthew,  Luke, 
Mark,  and  John,  and  these  children  of  my  brain,  like  the  four  Evangelists,  shall 
diffuse  the  religion  of  future  society,  which  will  be  founded  on  Fruitfulness, 
Work,  Truth,  and  Justice,  as  the  four  Evangelists  preached  the  gospel."  Zola 
had  already  set  forth  in  an  article  in  Figaro,  1896,  that  the  ideas  which  were 
later  to  be  embodied  in  Fruitfulness  had  been  in  his  mind  for  some  time.  But 
the  novel  must  be  regarded  as  a  tract  for  the  times,  dealing  with  evils  which 
grievously  beset  France.  Thus,  while  driven  from  his  country,  he  prepared  in 
exile  this  work  aimed  at  the  evil  of  a  diminishing  birth-rate,  which  he  felt  would, 
unless  arrested,  imperil  the  position  of  his  native  land  as  one  of  the  great  world 
powers. 


lATHIEU  FROMENT  had  to  hurry  to  catch  the 
seven  o'clock  train  for  Paris,  as  it  was  nearly 
a  two  hours'  journey  from  his  little  pavilion  at 
Chantebled  to  the  manufactory  in  that  city  where 
he  worked.  He  had  kissed  his  four  children,  and 
then  bade  adieu  to  Marianne,  the  fresh,  dark- 
haired  wife,  three  years  his  junior. 

"You  have  thirty  sous  left,  haven't  you, 
darling?"  he  asked. 
"Yes,"  she  laughed  back.  "We  shall  get  along  finely  on 
that  until  you  come  back,  and  then  you  will  bring  your  pay,  as 
this  is  the  end  of  the  month.  See  the  landlord,  and  tell 
him  the  roof  leaks,  so  that  the  rain  comes  into  the  children's 
bedrooms." 

He  pressed  her  tightly  to  him  in  one  more  embrace.  They 
were  closely  united  by  the  strong,  intense  love  of  the  perfectly 
healthy,  devoted  husband  and  wife.    They  had  wedded  when 

398 


fiMILE  ZOLA  399 

Marianne  was  seventeen  and  Mathieu  twenty-one,  and  now, 
seven  years  later,  with  four  children,  they  were  lovers  still. 

The  Beauchene  works  were  at  the  end  of  the  Quai  d'Orsay. 
The  brick  residence  of  Beauchene  stood  on  a  large  square,  and 
commanded  a  view  of  Passy.  On  one  side  was  the  small  house 
with  a  garden,  which  had  been  the  home  of  Beauchene's  father, 
when  his  dogged  toil  was  preparing  the  splendid  fortune  of  his 
son.  The  factory  turned  out  every  kind  of  agriculture  appli- 
ance and  employed  hundreds  of  workers,  including  fifty  women. 
Mathieu  was  chief  designer.  Pierre  Froment  had  given  to  each 
of  his  four  sons,  Mathieu,  Marc,  Luc,  and  Jean,  a  manual  train- 
ing. Alexandre  Beauchene  had  succeeded  his  father  the  pre- 
vious year,  and  had  married  Constance  Meunier,  an  heiress. 
Mathieu's  wife  was  a  poor  cousin  of  Alexandre's.  Beauchene 
was  hardly  five  years  older  than  Mathieu.  Beauchene's  sister, 
Sdraphine,  a  big,  vicious  girl,  had  got  into  trouble  by  eloping 
with  a  Baron  Lowicz,  to  whom  they  had  to  marry  her.  Mari- 
anne, an  orphan,  had  lived  in  her  cousin's  family,  and  Mathieu 
had  married  her  with  that  conviction  of  happiness  from  re- 
ciprocal bestowal  which  guarantees  a  lasting  happy  union. 
His  salary  was  increased  to  two  hundred  francs  a  month. 

Constance  Beauchene  was  a  thin,  authoritative  woman,  who 
ruled  her  house  inflexibly.  Beauchene  often  criticized  Mathieu 
for  his  want  of  sense  in  having  so  large  a  family.  "Twins  to 
begin  with,  Blaise  and  Denis!  Then  Ambroise,  and  Rose,  and 
you  lost  one  little  girl  at  her  birth.  I  have  one  son,  and,  like  a 
sensible  man,  want  no  more." 

Mathieu,  sturdy  and  erect  as  a  young  oak,  with  the  broad, 
high  forehead  of  the  Froments,  keen,  thoughtful  eyes,  and  a 
gay,  kindly  disposition,  laughed  at  such  reasonings.  "Old 
Moineaud,"  as  he  was  called,  though  he  was  only  forty-three, 
who  entered  the  office,  had  to  listen  to  Beauchene's  reproach  on 
the  same  score.  He  had  seven  children,  and  three  had  died. 
Two  of  his  girls,  Euphrasie  and  Norine,  the  latter  a  pretty 
blonde  of  nineteen,  worked  in  the  factory.  They  were  quar- 
reling as  Beauchene  and  Mathieu  passed  through  their  room, 
and  when  reproved  Norine  gave  a  smirking  glance  at  Beau- 
chene. His  gaiety  with  women  was  talked  about,  but  he  kept 
clear  of  his  female  employees. 


>  , 


400  FRUITFULNESS 

Mathieu  went  with  Beauchenc  to  his  residence,  where  they 
found  Constance  with  her  seven-year-old  Maurice,  a  sturdily 
built  child,  but  pale.  Dr.  Boutan  was  there,  a  fervent  partizan 
for  large  families,  who  thought  that  the  decreasing  birth-rate 
was  enfeebling  France,  which  was  becoming  the  country  of 
*'only  sons."  Later  in  the  day  Mathieu  chanced  to  come 
across  Beauchene  embracing  and  kissing  Norine  in  a  deserted 
gallery.  They  were  vexed  at  being  caught,  although  Mathieu 
hurried  on  without  a  word  or  glance. 

Morange,  the  chief  accountant,  a  handsome,  well-groomed 
man  of  thirty-eight,  took  Mathieu  to  his  pretentious  house  on 
the  Boulevard  de  Crenelle.  His  wife,  Valentine,  had  one  child, 
Reine,  a  girl  of  twelve.  Both  husband  and  wife  were  con- 
sumed with  social  ambition.  Mathieu  saw  that  he  had  been 
invited  to  lunch  that  he  might  be  dazzled  by  the  attempt  at 
show  which  marked  the  whole  family.  Valentine  Morange  was 
a  woman  with  a  fine  figure  and  fresh  charms.  She  was  a  snob, 
and  spoke  with  great  pride  of  Madame  Seguin  du  Hordel  and 
her  suberb  Avenue  d'Antin  residence,  and  also  of  the  Baroness 
Seraphine  de  Lowicz,  Beauchene's  vicious  sister.  As  Morange 
had  only  five  thousand  francs'  salary,  children  were  restricted  in 
his  family  to  Reine.  Valentine  was  impatient  for  her  husband 
to  secure  more  remunerative  employment.  Seraphine,  a  showy, 
voluptuous,  red-haired  woman  of  twenty-nine,  called  and  took 
Reine  off  to  the  circus,  to  the  rapturous  delight  of  the  Moranges. 

Mathieu  got  his  salary  at  six  o'clock,  and  called  on  his  rich 
landlord,  Seguin  du  Hordel,  a  part  of  whose  estate  consisted  of 
twelve  hundred  acres  of  wood  and  heath  above  Janville,  land 
so  marshy,  stony,  and  sandy  that  it  had  long  been  regarded  as 
hopeless  for  any  agricultural  purpose,  and  Seguin  let  out  the 
shooting  rights.  Through  Beauchene  Mathieu  had  learned  of 
the  old  pavilion,  or  hunting-box,  and  had  gladly  rented  it. 
Madame  Seguin  du  Hordel,  who  had  belonged  to  an  aristocratic 
but  poor  family,  was  getting  worldly  and  neglecting  her  religious 
practises.  Mathieu  met  a  Monsieur  Charles  Santerre,  a  literary 
charlatan,  of  attractive  person,  a  great  pessimist,  and  devoted  to 
the  ladies.  He  held  that  a  diminishing  birth-rate  was  proof  of 
an  advance  in  civilization.  The  conversation,  after  Madame 
Seguin  joined  them,  became   so  free  and   unrestrained  that 


fiMILE  ZOLA  401 

Mathieu  was  quite  dazed.  Then  the  two  frail  children  came  in: 
Gaston,  aged  five,  and  Lucie,  three.  They  looked  like  two 
dolls.  After  being  inspected  they  were  turned  over  to  the  care 
of  Cdeste,  a  hard,  cunning  Norman  peasant,  who  had  been  in 
service  in  Paris  for  five  years.  Mathieu  succeeded  in  getting 
S^guin,  his  landlord,  to  promise  to  mend  the  leaking  roof  at  his 
home. 

After  his  day's  sordid  experience  of  selfishness,  small  am- 
bitions, married  life  that  restricted  parenthood  for  mercenary  or 
pleasure -loving  reasons,  Mathieu  felt  renewed  and  calmed  to 
find  his  serene,  adoring  Marianne  awaiting  him  with  the  twins 
at  the  bridge,  at  Chantebled,  the  Sdguin  sterile  estate.  She  told 
him  gaily  she  had  six  sous  left,  and  that  Madame  Lepailleur  of 
the  mill  had  called  on  her.  The  miller  and  his  wife  had  one 
child,  Antonin.  "To  think  of  it!"  said  Marianne.  "Peasants 
used  to  have  such  large  families.  But  they  mean  to  have  no 
more,  though  they  are  so  young."  The  same  subject  came  up 
when  they  met  the  Angelins,  a  most  loving  young  couple,  on  their 
way  back.  The  young  husband  had  an  income  of  ten  thousand 
francs  and  was  a  painter  of  exquisite  fans.  They  were  full  of 
amorous  idleness,  and  the  young  wife  was  determined  not  to 
have  their  life  burdened  by  children  for  some  time  at  all  events. 

"Well,"  said  Mathieu,  encircling  Marianne's  strong,  flexible 
waist  with  his  sinewy  young  arm,  "we  all  Hve  according  to  our 
fancy.  I  like  ours.  We  love  each  other,  and  we  love  the  earth, 
and  we  like  love  and  life  and  the  fruits  thereof." 

When  they  counted  their  money,  considered  what  had  to  be 
paid  for  debts,  and  the  living  expenses,  Mathieu  said  with  a  little 
grimness :  "  Eight  francs  a  day  for  a  month,  and  our  four  children 
to  feed!" 

Marianne  laughed.  "Well,  dearest,  you  said  truly  that  it 
was  enough  to  love  life  in  order  to  live  happily.  With  you  and 
the  little  ones  I  am  the  happiest  and  richest  of  women." 

Mathieu  caught  her  in  a  close  embrace  and  pressed  a  long, 
ardent  kiss  upon  her  lips.  "  Dear,  you  are  right.  Let  us  con- 
tinue to  live  and  love  as  nature  tells  us,  and  all  will  come  right." 

In  January  the  Froments  were  in  Paris,  living  in  the  small 
pavilion  near  the  works,  that  Marianne  might  be  near  good  Dr. 
Boutan  when  her  next  confinement  should  occur.     One  day 

A.D.,  VOL.   XVII. — 26 


402  FRUITFULNESS 

they  lunched  at  the  Sdguins'.  Valentine  also  was  enceinte,  to 
her  husband's  intense  irritation.  While  they  were  there,  a 
nurse  called  to  see  Valentine.  Sophie  Couteau,  or  La  Couteau, 
was  a  wizened  little  peasant  woman  of  Rouge mont  who  supplied 
nurses,  or  who  took  babies  to  them  at  Rougemont.  Mathieu 
regarded  her  with  some  suspicion.  It  was  an  abhorrent  thing  to 
him  and  his  wife  that  anyone  but  the  mother  of  a  child  should 
suckle  it.  During  the  visit  Seguin  growled  over  his  sterile  estate 
and  said  he  should  be  glad  to  sell  it.  A  friend  named  Santerre 
called.  He  spoke  of  the  wonderful  operations  a  Dr.  Gaude  was 
performing  at  the  Marboeuf  Hospital.  Spectators  used  to  at- 
tend, as  they  would  at  a  play.  Marianne,  unable  to  endure  the 
unpleasant  conversation,  took  her  leave  with  Mathieu. 

^^ Mon  Dieu!    But  those  people  are  mad!"  she  said  to  him. 

"They  are  to  be  pitied,"  he  replied,  "for  they  do  not  know 
what  happiness  means." 

Marianne  gave  birth  to  a  boy.  On  that  very  day  Mathieu 
learned  a  frightful  thing.  Valentine,  with  her  husband's  per- 
mission, had  had  recourse  to  one  of  those  harpies  who  relieve 
women  of  children  they  have  no  inclination  to  bear.  She  had 
died  under  the  operation  and  Morange  was  crazed  with  remorse. 
It  was  not  long  before  this  that  Norine's  condition  had  been  dis- 
covered, and  Beauchene  had  given  the  money  for  the  child  to 
be  taken  care  of  by  a  hideous  woman.  Marianne  returned  to 
Chantebled  within  a  fortnight,  and  was  nursing  her  healthy  in- 
fant and  feeling  her  old,  splendid  vigor  returning  to  her. 

With  this  new  addition  to  his  family,  Mathieu's  thoughts 
turned  toward  the  soil,  man's  everlasting  provider.  If  he  could 
only  coax  those  sterile  acres  into  fertihty!  What  a  creative 
work  for  a  courageous,  intelligent  man  it  would  be  to  redeem 
Chantebled! 

La  Couteau  tried  to  get  Norine  to  let  her  take  her  baby  to 
Rougemont.  Baby-farming  was  a  specialty  of  this  spot,  which, 
like  certain  other  Norman  and  Touraine  villages,  was  said  to  be 
virtually  "  paved  with  little  Parisians."  But  Mathieu  saw  him- 
self that  the  httle  unfortunate  "Alexandre-Honor^,"  as  he  was 
called,  was  deposited  in  the  Foundling  Asylum. 

Mathieu  finally  took  the  step  which  was  to  commit  him  and 
his  fortunes  to  the  soil.     He  secured  the  pavilion  and  fifty  acres, 


fiMILE  ZOLA  403 

with  the  privilege  of  acquiring  other  parts  of  the  estate  later. 
He  at  once  set  to  work  draining,  leveling,  and  irrigating.  Then 
came  the  plowing  and  the  sowing.  The  humus  amassed  through 
centuries  nourished  the  seed  prodigiously,  and  grain  grew  on  all 
sides  with  abundance.  Courage,  hope,  and  energy  had  won 
the  day.  Mathieu  was  a  successful  farmer,  and  had  now  become 
a  peasant. 

Thereafter  life  was  for  him  a  triumphant  march  toward 
victory.  As  he  won  over  one  patch  of  steriHty  to  fruitfulness, 
Mathieu  continued  to  cultivate  the  ground  and  redeemed  another 
section.  His  estate  increased  as  his  family  increased.  Then 
he  took  over  the  wood  and  moorland,  which  was  an  immense 
tract.  Finally  a  whole  new  farmstead  had  to  be  erected — ^barns, 
sheds,  cow-houses,  stables,  and  buildings  to  accommodate  the 
farm-hands. 

One  day  when  Mathieu  was  in  Paris,  purchasing  for  his 
farm  needs,  he  learned  a  ghastly  thing.  Little  Reine,  Morange's 
daughter,  who  had  been  taken  up  by  S^raphine,  had  got  into 
trouble,  and  seeking  escape  from  disgrace  had  laid  down  her  life 
as  had  her  mother  eight  years  before,  through  seeking  to  evade 
maternity  by  surgical  aid.  Morange,  who  had  staked  all  his 
happiness  on  this  child,  became  forever  a  broken  man.  Mathieu, 
seeing  how  gloriously  the  earth  was  yielding  her  blessings  to  his 
incessant  toil,  while  Marianne's  superb  health  and  noble  nature 
bore  him  splendid  issue,  until  his  pride  was  full  to  overflowing, 
could  only  rejoice  that  rectitude  had  its  own  rewards.  Seguin, 
who  was  not  only  deteriorating  through  excesses  but  was  losing 
his  fortune,  induced  the  victorious  peasant  to  take  all  that  re- 
mained of  the  land. 

Mathieu's  son  Blaise,  when  he  grew  up,  was  taken  into  Beau- 
chene's  factory,  and  although  not  twenty  took  a  wife  to  himself 
as  soon  as  this  employment  was  secured  to  him.  His  wife, 
Charlotte,  gave  birth  to  a  boy,  and  Mathieu  completed  his  vic- 
tory by  purchasing  the  last  parcel  of  the  estate  of  Seguin. 
Twelve  hundred  and  fifty  acres  of  uncultivated  soil,  reputed 
sterile,  had  been  coerced  into  the  richest  fertility,  and  all  through 
his  courage  and  unwearying  toil. 

Maurice  Beauchene,  who  had  been  inducted  into  the  man- 
agement of  his  father's  factory,  one  day,  overheated,  became 


404  FRUITFULNESS 

suddenly  chilled.  After  an  attack  of  quick  consumption  he 
died  in  his  mother's  arms.  The  "only  son,"  who  was  to  inherit 
all  and  be  a  wealthy  prince  of  industry,  had  fallen.  Marianne 
Froment  was  expecting  her  eleventh  child  at  the  time.  Beau- 
ch^ne  tottered  under  the  blow.  As  for  Constance,  his  wife,  it 
was  utter  overthrow.  And  Marianne,  she  reflected  bitterly, 
was  a  grandmother  at  forty-one !  She  became  a  frozen  specter. 
Her  son  was  gone,  and  there,  helping  her  husband,  was  Blaise, 
the  eldest  son  of  Mathieu  Froment ! 

In  their  thirst  for  another  child,  Constance  and  her  husband 
resumed  friendly  relations  for  several  months  after  Maurice's 
death.  Then  Beauchene  took  himself  off,  and  one  day  Mathieu 
was  surprised  when  Constance  asked  him  about  the  child  Norine 
had  had  by  Beauchene  fifteen  years  before.  Her  torment  at 
being  childless  seemed  to  drive  her  to  this.  It  did  not  soothe 
the  bereft  woman  to  learn  that  Ambroise,  one  of  Froment's 
sons,  who  had  made  great  success  with  Seguin's  brother,  was 
actually  to  marry  Andree,  Valentine's  daughter.  Charles  San- 
terre  had  broken  finally  with  the  unhappy  woman,  who  had 
returned  to  the  consolations  of  rehgion. 

Constance  found  a  sort  of  solace  in  talking  with  poor  Mo- 
range,  who  also  had  staked  and  lost  all  his  hopes  on  one  child. 
He  told  her  that  her  husband,  having  had  need  of  a  large  sum  of 
money,  had  parted  with  a  sixth  interest  in  the  factory  to  Blaise 
Froment,  whose  father  had  advanced  the  money.  She  fumed 
impotently  over  the  situation.  In  going  through  the  passage 
which  led  from  the  factory  to  the  house  she  would  have  stepped 
into  an  open  trap  but  for  Morange.  It  was  not  used  often,  and 
when  it  was  someone  always  was  on  guard  until  it  was  closed. 
The  fall  would  have  been  through  three  stories  to  the  basement, 
as  Morange  showed  her.  He  begged  her  to  wait  until  he  could 
find  the  man  who  should  have  been  on  guard  but  who  had 
failed  to  answer  to  his  shout. 

After  he  had  gone  Constance  saw  Blaise  coming  down  the 
gallery  with  a  preoccupied  air.  She  was  in  dense  shadow  near 
the  wall,  unseen.  What  if  he  should  fall  down  the  trap!  The 
factory  which  her  son  was  to  have  ruled  would  then  never  be  his. 
A  movement  from  her  could  arrest  him.  She  could  not  act. 
She  was  frozen  into  a  paralysis.     She  saw  him  go  on,  disappear, 


fiMILE  ZOLA  405 

heard  a  loud  cry,  then  a  dull  crash  below  in  the  dark  void.  Then 
she  turned  and  fled  to  her  house. 

When  the  stupefied  Morange  came  to  tell  her  that  the  young 
man  was  dying,  and  asked  her  why  she  had  not  stayed  at  the 
trap,  as  he  had  begged  her  to  do,  she  boldly  declared  that  he 
had  said  nothing  of  the  sort.    He  knew  that  she  was  lying. 

Then  they  brought  in  the  crushed  man  and  laid  him  on 
Maurice's  bed,  in  the  room  which  Constance  had  kept  un- 
changed, as  if  it  were  a  sanctuary.  The  irony  of  that !  When 
later  Beauchene  asked  her  how  she  came  to  go  away  after 
Morange  had  requested  her  to  stay,  she  nerved  herself  and  said: 
*'  I  did  not  hear  him.  Remember,  Morange !  You  rushed  away. 
You  said  nothing  to  me." 

Torn,  dazed,  dreading  results  should  he  charge  her  with 
murder,  he  stammered:  "It  is  possible  I  may  have  only  meant 
to  tell  you  and  did  not."  The  words  made  him  her  accomplice. 
Then — Denis  Froment  took  his  brother's  place  in  the  factory! 

There  was  a  grand  family  jete  at  Chantebled  fourteen 
months  after  this,  when  Denis  married  Marthe  Devignes,  the 
sister  of  his  twin  brother's  widow.  It  seemed  so  fit  that  he  and 
Blaise  should  thus  marry  sisters.  Marianne  put  off  her  gown 
of  mourning.  Rose,  her  daughter,  had  slept  in  the  little  ceme- 
tery at  Janville  for  more  than  two  years,  and  for  more  than  a 
year  Blaise  had  slept  there  too.  It  was  a  strictly  family  festivity, 
for  only  the  Seguins  and  Beauchenes  were  asked,  and  the  latter 
were  cousins.  The  ceremony  took  place  out  of  doors  in  front 
of  the  old  pavilion,  which  had  been  enlarged.  Mathieu  meant 
to  retire  to  it  in  later  life  and  live  there  in  patriarchal  repose  with 
Marianne,  loved  and  consulted  but  with  his  sovereignty  ab- 
dicated. At  this  festivity  the  youngest  guests  were  Benjamin, 
Marianne's  youngest  child,  and  Guillaume,  Charlotte's  baby, 
both  still  at  the  breast.  Big,  hot  tears  burned  Constance's 
cheeks  as  she  saw  before  her  eyes  the  fruitfulness  of  the  Fro- 
ments  displayed,  and  the  wide-stretching  acres  of  smiling  land 
which  the  father  and  his  sons  had  rescued  from  sterihty. 

When  Mathieu  was  fifty-five,  he  transferred  the  government 
of  the  farm  to  Gervais,  the  first  of  his  children  bom  at  Chante- 
bled, and  the  one  who  never  had  left  the  farm.  Some  of  the 
younger  children  remained  at  home.    There  was  question  now 


4o6  FRUITFULNESS 

of  some  of  their  grandchildren  marrying!  There  was  one  sad 
departure  when  Nicolas  and  his  sturdy  young  wife  sought 
Mathieu's  blessing  before  leaving  France  to  take  up  an  adven- 
turous abode  in  Africa.  This  was  a  last  farewell,  and  to  their 
next  but  youngest  son.  Their  consent  was  the  tithe  levied  by 
life  on  their  affection  and  their  blood.  Beyond  the  fatherland 
were  other  lands  to  be  populated.  Beyond  the  family  there  is 
mankind,  and  the  duty  of  populating  the  earth. 

For  twelve  dreary  years  Constance  had  clung  with  mad 
tenacity  to  the  hope  of  finding  Norine's  child.  Then  Seraphine, 
who  had  taken  to  charities,  told  her  she  had  found  Alexandre- 
Honore.  Constance  coerced  Morange  into  giving  Beauch^ne's 
bastard  a  place  in  the  factory,  with  orders  to  advance  him. 
"This  Denis,  thief  of  a  Froment,  is  robbing  us  of  our  property," 
she  said. 

Morange,  the  now  feeble-minded  old  accountant,  writhed 
under  her  ruthless  employment  of  him  as  a  tool.  Then,  while 
walking  along  the  passage  between  the  works  and  the  house,  he 
saw  the  trap-door  open!  A  lightning  flash  of  inspiration  pos- 
sessed the  poor  man.  He  set  the  trap  so  that  it  could  not  be 
shut  up,  put  out  the  electric  lights  in  the  passage,  and  saw  that 
the  gate  in  the  railing  moved  easily.  Then  he  went  to  Constance 
and  received  Alexandre  from  her.  As  they  left  the  room  he 
turned  back  and  leered  at  her  demoniacally.  "Ha!  Blaise  at 
the  bottom  of  the  hole!  He  has  spoken  to  me.  You  would 
have  the  somersault.     You  shall  have  it  again!" 

The  blood  froze  in  her  veins  and  paralyzed  her.  Almost  like 
a  dead  woman  she  sat  and  waited. 

"I  will  go  first,"  said  Morange  to  Alexandre.  "I  know  the 
way.  What!  The  lights  out?  Never  mind.  Walk  close  be- 
hind me.     Here's  a  gate.     Follow  me." 

He  stepped  boldly  into  the  void,  and  fell  without  a  cry. 
Pressing  on  his  heels,  Alexandre  felt  the  ground  fail  beneath 
his  feet ;  yelled,  and  threw  up  his  hands,  but  tumbled  headlong 
down.  His  brains  were  dashed  out  on  the  very  spot  where 
Blaise  Froment  had  been  picked  up,  years  before. 

The  deed  was  ascribed  to  old  Morange's  imbecility.  His 
house  revealed  proofs  of  a  disordered  brain.  It  was  inde- 
scribably disordered  and  filthy  except  Reine's  room,  which  was 


I 


fiMILE   ZOLA  407 

as  clean  and  reverently  cared  for  as  a  sanctuary.  Countless 
photographs  of  Rcine  and  her  mother  were  arranged  on  the 
wall,  and  before  them  stood  a  table,  on  which  were  more  than 
one  hundred  thousand  francs  in  gold,  silver,  and  copper!  He 
had  wished  to  make  them  rich,  and  even  after  their  death  he  con- 
secrated, like  a  pious  miser,  all  his  earnings  to  them. 

When  Mathieu  recognized  Beauchene's  son  by  Norine,  and 
recalled  the  similarity  between  the  two  tragedies,  and  the  story 
told  by  the  crushed  bodies — ^that  Morange  had  led  Alexandre 
to  his  death — an  awful  conviction  gripped  his  mind.  He  hur- 
ried to  Constance  with  the  thought  scorching  his  brain.  She 
had  numbly  waited — ^tense,  white,  staring — ever  since  Morange 
had  carried  away  Alexandre  and  had  branded  her  soul  with  that 
terrible  leer.  When  the  door  opened  Mathieu  Froment  stood 
before  her,  the  incarnation  of  her  deadliest  dread!  As  their 
eyes  met  she  knew  he  read  her  guilt  in  hers. 

"They  made  the  plunge,"  he  said  cuttingly.  "They  are 
both  dead — like  Blaise.  Woman!  what  blood  is  on  you!  It 
was  that  young  monster,  Alexandre,  who  strangled  and  robbed 
your  friend,  Madame  Angelin,  last  winter,  of  the  money  she  had 
collected  for  the  poor  and  for  his  mother,  whom  she  constantly 
assisted.  I  could  have  sent  him  to  the  galleys.  If  I  were  to 
speak  out  now  you  would  be  sent  there,  guilty  woman!" 

All  that  had  held  her  together  seemed  to  snap  at  once,  and 
she  pitched  in  a  heap  on  the  floor.  From  then  till  she  died  the 
next  morning  not  a  word  escaped  from  her. 

Years  later  Mathieu,  Marianne,  and  all  the  plenitude  of 
their  abounding  family  assembled  at  Chantebled  for  their 
diamond  wedding.  Mathieu,  with  his  ninety  years,  was  still 
erect,  his  silver  hair  streaming  to  his  shoulders,  his  eyes  clear 
and  thoughtful,  and  Marianne  seemed  a  fruitful  Cybele  by  his 
side,  peace  and  joy  beaming  from  her  gaze.  Around  them 
clustered  one  hundred  and  fifty-eight  children,  grandchildren, 
and  great-grandchildren.  The  husbands  and  wives  who  had 
married  into  the  family  made  the  group  nearly  three  hundred  in 
number.  It  was  a  glorious  day,  and  the  joyous  band  gathered 
around  the  patriarchal  pair,  who  sat  beneath  an  old  oak  on  the 
lawn.  It  was  a  moment  of  sovereign  glory  for  Mathieu  and 
Marianne.    Life  seemed  to  have  delighted  in  prolonging  their 


4o8  FRUITFULNESS 

noble  lives  that  they  might  behold  the  wondrous  blossoming  of 
their  faith,  bravery,  and  goodness.  They  worshiped  one  an- 
other to-day,  as  they  had  seventy  years  before  when  they  had 
joined  their  generous,  healthful  lives. 

While  the  banquet  was  being  served  a  gallant  young  fellow, 
a  stranger  to  everybody  present,  stepped  briskly  across  the 
lawn. 

"Good  day,  grandfather!  Good  day,  grandmother,"  he 
said  gaily.  "  I  am  Dominique,  the  eldest  son  of  your  son  Nico- 
las, and  I  come  to  you  from  our  swelling  settlement  in  the  Sou- 
dan." He  told  the  delighted  pair  of  the  colony  springing  up  in 
that  African  land,  and  they  rejoiced  at  this  bounteous  fruitful- 
ness  which  France  was  bestowing  upon  colonial  soil. 

When  Dominique  returned,  Benjamin,  who  had  remained 
the  one  unmarried  Froment  of  the  flock,  implored  Mathieu  and 
Marianne  to  let  him  go  with  him  to  that  new  land,  and  with  a 
heroic  sigh  they  bade  him  Godspeed. 


LABOR    (1901) 
(Le  Travail) 

Most  of  this  story  was  written  in  1900,  and  it  began  to  appear  as  a  serial 
in  the  Aurore  in  December  of  that  year.  In  April,  1901,  it  was  published  as  a 
volume.  Labor  was  intended  to  be  the  second  volume  of  a  tetralogy,  of  which 
La  Fecondite  ("Fruitfulness")  was  the  first.  This  tetralogy  was  to  be  the  four 
gospels  of  humanity.  Therefore,  the  name  of  the  hero  of  Labor  is  Luc,  just 
as  that  of  the  hero  of  Fruit julness  is  Mathicu,  and  they  are  sons  of  Peter  Froment, 
the  hero  of  the  Trots  Villes.  Labor  is  for  the  future  city  what  Fruitfulness  is 
for  the  future  family,  the  symbolic  picture  of  the  future,  freed  from  the  shadows 
and  miseries  of  the  present.  Zola,  although  he  styles  the  book  a  novel,  has  cast 
aside  most  of  the  rules  and  conventions  of  novel  writing.  The  story  reached  a 
sale  of  more  than  seventy-seven  thousand  copies  within  two  years.  At  present 
it  supplies  texts  for  lectures  and  commentaries  delivered  to  the  working  classes, 
not  only  in  Paris  but  in  the  French  provinces. 

[hen  Luc  Froment  visited  Beauclair,  he  found 
that  a  strike  was  in  progress  at  the  Qurignon  steel 
and  iron  works,  generally  known  as  the  Pit. 
This  strike  had  lasted  for  two  months  and  had 
brought  great  suffering  on  both  parties,  but 
especially  on  the  workmen,  who  were  nearly  dead 
with  hunger  and  with  fury  at  finding  themselves 
unable  to  coerce  their  employers.  Luc  had  been 
summoned  by  his  friend  Jordan,  the  famous 
scientist,  to  aid  him  in  disposing  of  the  blast-furnace  in  the 
neighboring  town  of  La  Crecherie.  This  valetudinarian  in- 
tellectual worker  was  convinced  that  science  was  the  real  revolu- 
tionist of  the  future,  and  that  the  discovery  of  the  most  insignifi- 
cant scientific  truth  does  more  for  progress  than  fifty  years  of 
social  struggle.  Consequently  he  wished  to  free  himself  from 
every  obstacle  that  would  interfere  with  the  realization  of  the 
plans  to  which  he  had  consecrated  his  existence.  But  he  was 
not  at  La  Crecherie  and  would  not  return  from  Paris  for  some 
days;  and  this  was  the  reason  why  Luc  was  strolling  through 
Beauclair  without  definite  object.    Yet,  before  many  hours  had 

409 


I 

/ 


410  LABOR 

elapsed,  he  felt  a  presentiment  that  he  had  been  led  by  circum- 
stances over  which  he  had  no  control  as  a  sort  of  Messiah  into 
this  unhappy  comer  of  the  earth  to  bring  it  happiness  and  de- 
liverance. So  he  set  about  learning  all  he  could  concerning  the 
Pit  and  the  people  connected  v^ith  it. 

The  present  owner  of  the  Pit  was  an  idle,  flashy  gentleman 
from  Paris,  named  Boisgelin,  who  had  married  the  last  of  the 
Qurignons  at  a  timeVhen  the  works  had  been  almost  wrecked  by 
bad  management.  He  was  induced  by  Delaveau,  a  poor  rela- 
tive, to  invest  what  remained  of  his  fortune  in  them.  Delaveau, 
a  man  of  great  executive  ability,  contracted  to  make  the  Pit  pay 
thirty  per  cent,  on  the  capital  invested,  and  for  a  few  years  kept 
his  promise.  But  although  inclined  to  be  just,  according  to  his 
own  idea  of  justice,  he  was  arbitrary,  and  the  workmen  com- 
plained that  they  had  no  individual  liberty.  Then  he  began  to 
revise  the  scale  of  prices  in  a  way  imfavorable  to  the  employees, 
with  the  result  that  a  syndicate  for  defense  was  formed,  and  so 
the  strike  began. 

Luc  then  turned  his  attention  to  the  workmen.  These 
might  be  divided  into  distinct  classes,  and  of  each  class  he 
quickly  discerned  an  individual  type:  there  was  Ragu,  capable 
of  revolt  for  a  brief  period,  but  a  slave  at  heart ;  consumed  with 
a  secret  envy  of  the  ovmer,  yet  possessing  no  ambition  but  that 
of  some  day  occupying  the  owner's  place  and  reveling  in  all  the 
joys  of  possession;  he  was  a  drunkard  and  a  brute,  and  one  of 
Luc's  first  adventures  in  Beauclair  was  the  rescue  of  the  young 
girl  who  lived  with  Ragu  from  his  barbarity,  the  beautiful  and 
gentle  Josine,  afterward  destined  to  play  a  notable  part  in  the 
life  and  plans  of  her  rescuer;  then  there  was  Fanchard,  a  man 
who  felt  his  degradation  at  capitalistic  hands,  but  who  was 
transformed  into  a  mere  machine  and  had  no  thought  of  ever 
escaping  from  his  black  and  dolorous  hell;  Lange,  the  gentle 
dreamer  and  violent  anarchist,  aiming  at  justice  and  peace,  but 
convinced  that  everything  must  first  be  destroyed  by  fire  and 
sword,  and  resolved  to  be  the  justiciary  himself;  Bonnaire,  the 
master-puddler,  a  hero  of  labor,  sacrificing  even  the  bread  of 
his  family  to  the  cause  of  his  fellows,  an  inveterate  collectivist, 
firmly  believing  that  everything  should  belong  to  labor  and  that 
everyone  should  have  his  just  share  of  work  and  of  rest,  of 


I 


fiMILE  ZOLA  411 

trouble  and  of  enjoyment;  Morfain,  who  worked  at  La  Cr6- 
cherie,  docile,  resigned,  not  touched  by  the  new  spirit,  accepting 
servitude  without  revolt,  choosing  rather  to  fall  as  the  wild  hero 
of  the  old  slavery  rather  than  make  terms  with  the  new  times; 
an  epic  figure,  in  good  truth. 

Luc  spent  hours  in  witnessing  scenes  that  made  his  heart 
sore  with  pity;  everywhere  labor  was  disorganized,  dishonored, 
and  accursed;  all  hearts  and  heads  seemed  poisoned  with  hate; 
alcohol  seemed  to  have  become  a  necessity  for  men  who  wished 
to  find  forgetfubiess;  theft  seemed  to  be  made  legitimate  by 
hunger;  society  was  going  to  pieces  under  the  weight  of  its 
accumulated  wrongs.  The  sight  of  the  pale  girls  wandering 
through  the  streets,  those  wretched  creatures  so  common  in  in- 
dustrial cities,  brought  down  to  that  pass  from  having  been  the 
prettiest  girls  in  the  factories,  especially  excited  his  anguish. 
It  was  midnight  before  he  returned  to  La  Crecherie.  As  he 
arrived  a  great  light  suddenly  illuminated  the  entire  country. 
It  was  caused  by  a  tapping  of  the  blast-furnace.  Luc,  raising 
his  eyes,  saw,  as  he  imagined,  the  rising  of  the  star  promised  to 
his  dream  of  a  new  humanity. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  as  the  Jordans  would  not 
return  before  Monday  Luc  resolved  to  accept  an  invitation  from 
Madame  Boisgelin  to  breakfast  with  her  at  Guerdache,  a  mile 
and  a  half  distant.  Both  had  been  connected  with  charitable 
works  in  Paris,  and  he  entertained  an  affectionate  veneration 
for  this  admirable  woman.  Besides,  he  was  sure  to  meet  at  her 
home  the  most  typical  representatives  of  the  rotten  and  crum- 
bling edifice  of  society.  There  were  fifteen  at  table  in  the  im- 
mense and  luxurious  Louis  XVI  dining-room.  The  snowy 
damask,  the  glitter  of  silver  and  glass,  the  flowers  and  perfumes, 
all  aroused  in  Luc  a  remembrance  of  the  previous  evening :  the 
famished  wretches  tramping  in  the  mire,  the  puddlers  and  fur- 
nace-men, whose  flesh  was  baked  in  the  infernal  fire  of  the  fur- 
naces. Out  of  what  unjust  poverty,  what  accursed  labor,  what 
execrable  suffering  was  the  luxury  of  the  idle  and  fortunate 
created ! 

He  was  seated  between  Delaveau  and  his  wife,  Femande. 
The  relations  between  the  latter  and  Boisgelin  were  known  to 
everyone  except  her  husband,  whom  she  hated  with  a  sullen, 


412  LABOR 

gloomy  hatred.  Perfectly  conscious  of  her  marvelous  loveliness, 
she  had  been  all  her  life  a  devourer  of  men.  She  was  now  help- 
ing Boisgelin  to  squander  the  money  which  Delaveau  was  coin- 
ing from  the  sweat  of  the  twelve  hundred  workmen  of  the  Pit. 
Among  the  guests  were  Judge  Gaume,  a  stem  and  rigorous 
executioner  of  the  laws,  although  he  recognized  their  injustice 
and  cruelty;  Courier,  the  mayor,  a  Republican,  who  believed 
the  Republic  would  destroy  itself  should  it  interfere  with  prop- 
erty; Captain  Jollivet,  who  knew  only  his  sword  and  the  word 
of  command,  and  believed  that  even  if  the  laws  were  no  longer 
administered  the  army  would  make  short  work  of  the  rascals 
who  were  undermining  society;  the  Abbe  Marie,  the  loyal  de- 
fender of  Catholicism,  holding  strictly  to  his  dogmas,  feeling  sure 
that  the  old  establishment,  and  society  with  it,  would  be  swept 
away  on  the  day  when  science  and  freedom  of  thought  should 
enter  into  it;  the  sub-prefect,  Chatelard,  cynical  and  skeptical, 
regarding  his  office  simply  as  a  provision  for  life,  despising  both 
the  workmen  and  the  bourgeoisie. 

The  Jordans,  Martial  and  his  sister,  Sceurette,  who  devoted 
herself  entirely  to  her  invalid  brother,  surrounding  him  with  the 
gentle  affection  which  was  as  necessary  to  him  as  the  air  he 
breathed,  returned  the  next  day.  Luc  at  once  laid  before  them 
his  vast  project  for  introducing  justice  and  love  into  society  and 
substituting  for  a  condition  of  misery  and  crime  a  city  of  justice 
and  peace.  His  ultimate  purpose  was  the  suppression  of  the 
unjust  and  oppressive  wage  system,  which  condemns  the  work- 
man to  support  in  idleness  those  who  possess  the  land  and 
capital;  the  suppression  of  individual  possession  by  making 
common  the  instruments  of  labor  and  of  land;  the  suppression  of 
commerce,  that  consumer  of  time  and  of  the  hopeless  toiler;  the 
suppression  of  money,  a  false  and  fictitious  value  that  serves 
only  to  prolong  and  to  vitiate  transactions;  he  would  thus  banish 
frauds,  violence,  and  rapine,  which  would  no  longer  have  any 
reason  for  existence,  since  people  would  no  longer  have  any- 
thing to  quarrel  about;  the  suppression  of  courts  and  prisons, 
which  would  ultimately  be  entirely  unnecessary.  Thus,  misery 
would  disappear,  and  labor,  thanks  to  science,  thanks  to  the 
perfection  of  machines,  especially  of  electrical  machines,  would 
be  rendered  so  easy,  so  productive,  as  well  as  so  attractive,  that 


I 


fiMILE  ZOLA  413 

the  workman  would  be  required  to  work  only  four  hours  a  day 
at  the  most. 

He  was  so  passionate,  so  grand  in  his  enthusiasm,  that 
Jordan  was  amazed  and  his  sister  gazed  at  him  with  reHgious 
fervor.  At  last  Martial  said:  *'My  friend,  I  am  afraid  your 
scheme  is  Utopian.  But  try  what  you  can  do.  You  shall  have 
La  Crecherie,  the  iron  mine,  and  all  my  lands  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, as  well  as  half  a  million  francs  to  begin  with.  I  intended 
to  let  Deleveau  have  them.  After  this  you  must  never  talk  to 
me  of  the  matter,  but  leave  me  to  my  studies  and  experiments." 
His  sister's  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  these  words.  "And  I,  too, 
will  serve  you,"  she  exclaimed;  "make  what  use  of  me  you 
can." 

Three  years  passed,  and  Luc  had  established  his  new  works, 
which  had  given  rise,  at  least  partially,  to  an  industrial  town, 
extending  for  more  than  two  hundred  and  fifty  acres  from  the 
park  of  La  Crecherie  to  the  accumulations  of  the  buildings  of 
the  Pit.  At  the  beginning  he  had  to  do  things  on  a  small  scale. 
At  first  he  had  to  admit  the  wage  system,  but  with  a  division  of 
profits.  Then  the  system  gradually  disappeared,  and  with  it 
commerce,  money,  and  inheritance,  those  three  foundations  of 
our  putrid  modern  life.  Afterward  all  authority  ceased  to  exist. 
The  new  social  pact  was  founded  solely  on  the  bond  of  labor. 
Of  course  everything  was  still  in  embryo.  But  he  had  erected 
the  Communal  House  in  the  midst  of  the  territory,  containing 
schoolrooms,  libraries,  baths,  halls  for  entertainments  and 
games.  The  men  themselves  organized  cooperative  stores  con- 
taining all  things  needed  for  human  use.  Beautiful  and  sani- 
tary cottages  were  erected,  and  water,  clear,  pure,  and  abundant, 
irrigated  the  gardens,  cleansed  the  works,  and  was  brought  into 
all  the  houses  to  be  a  source  of  health  and  joy. 

All  this  had  not  been  effected  without  opposition.  When  the 
cooperative  stores  began  to  take  away  their  customers  the  small 
tradespeople  of  Beauclair  were  alarmed.  Cries  of  "Death!" 
were  shouted  after  Luc  when  he  passed  through  the  town.  On 
one  occasion  men,  women,  and  children  assailed  him  with  stones 
and  seriously  injured  him.  He  wept  for  the  ignorance  of  these 
people,  whose  welfare  was  so  dear  to  him  and  who  would  not 
permit  him  to  save  them.     Ragu,  Fonchard,  and  even  Bon- 


414  LABOR 

naire,  who  had  come  to  him  from  the  Pit,  deserted  him,  and  per- 
suaded other  workmen  to  do  the  same.  The  two  latter,  how- 
ever, subsequently  returned.  It  seemed  as  if  his  efforts  to 
estabhsh  a  town  founded  upon  labor,  justice,  and  peace  would 
be  impeded  by  the  refusal  of  the  men  to  support  him.  They 
believed  the  process  of  evolution  too  slow,  lost  patience,  and 
thought  they  must  seize  everything  in  order  to  have  anything. 

For  a  time  he  was  in  despair.  But  the  encouragement  of 
the  Jordans  enabled  him  to  recover  his  will  and  action.  He 
maintained  the  struggle  between  La  Crecherie  and  the  Pit  with 
a  kind  of  triumphant  cheerfulness.  Besides,  he  loved  Josine, 
now  married  to  Ragu,  who  ill-treated  her.  He  hoped  to  take 
her  away  from  him  in  the  near  future.  With  Josine  saved,  all 
unhappy  beings  on  the  earth  could  be  saved  too.  Such  was  his 
faith.  He  worked  by  love,  and  for  love,  and  he  was  certain  of 
success. 

Then  he  was  again  attacked,  and  lay  in  danger  of  death  for 
several  weeks.  When  he  was  sufficiently  recovered  from  this 
brutal  assault  to  resume  the  direction  of  the  works,  he  was  re- 
ceived with  the  warmest  sympathy,  and  this  did  him  good.  His 
satisfaction  was  increased  by  the  discovery  of  lodes  of  excellent 
ore  on  the  property,  which  became  a  source  of  enormous  wealth. 
From  this  time  both  iron  and  steel  were  produced  so  cheaply 
that  the  Pit  was  threatened  with  ultimate  ruin.  The  number 
of  happy  homes  in  La  Crecherie  doubled,  trebled,  and  threatened 
to  engulf  its  filthy  neighbor.  Year  after  year  the  profits  became 
greater,  and  the  workmen  at  La  Crecherie  were  gaining  double 
what  their  comrades  were  at  the  other  works.  How  was  it 
'-^  possible  not  to  recognize  that  the  system  of  eight  hours'  labor, 

i  then  of  six  hours',  then  of  three — a  system  made  enjoyable  by 

f  diversity  of  employment,  and  the  attractive  surroundings  of 

i  light,  cheerful  workshops,  and  machines  that  children  could 

operate — ^was  the  very  foundation  of  future  society,  when  the 
wretched  wage-earners  of  yesterday  were  seen  becoming  healthy, 
intelligent,  cheerful,  and  gentlemen,  in  their  progress  toward 
perfect  liberty  and  justice?  The  example  of  La  Crecherie  be- 
came contagious;  new  workmen  were  presenting  themselves  in 
crowds,  and  new  buildings  sprang  up  in  every  direction.  The 
city  had  trebled  its  population  in  three  years;  it  was  in  the  way 


i 


fiMILE  ZOLA  415 

of  growing  into  a  metropolis,  and  eventually  all  Beauclair  must 
belong  to  it. 

In  November  his  bills  payable  were  so  heavy  that  Delaveau 
felt  the  earth  tremble  under  him.  He  had  a  decisive  conversa- 
tion with  BoisgeJin,  insisted  that  he  should  reduce  his  expenses 
and  even  sell  Guerdache.  The  next  day,  while  he  was  alone  in 
his  office,  walking  up  and  down,  and  at  intervals  stirring  with  a 
mechanical  movement  of  his  hand  the  coke  fire  burning  in  a 
sheet-iron  stove,  his  wife,  who  had  been  dining  with  Boisgelin, 
entered  furiously.  ^'So,  what  Boisgelin  tells  me  is  true!"  she 
cried.  "We  are  ruined,  and  must  live  on  bread  and  wear 
woolen  clothes." 

Then  ensued  a  terrible  scene  between  the  infamous  wife  and 
the  betrayed  husband.  At  last,  after  an  interchange  of  every 
sort  of  ferocious  insult,  Fernande  lost  all  self-restraint.  ''It 
was  I,"  she  said,  ''who  made  you  what  you  are.  But  for  me 
you  would  not  have  remained  manager  of  the  Pit  for  a  single 
year." 

"You  are  mad,"  answered  Delaveau  contemptuously. 

"So  little  mad  that  your  Boisgelin  has  been  my  lover  for 
twelve  years!" 

He  rushed  upon  her,  with  his  teeth  clenched,  shook  her 
violently,  and  flung  her  into  the  armchair.  The  veil  was  torn 
asunder,  and  he  saw  the  beautiful,  refined,  exquisite  woman  as 
she  was;  this  woman  he  had  so  long  idolized.  She  had  lived 
there  beside  him,  with  her  tranquil  manner  and  tender,  smiling 
countenance,  and  yet  she  was  all  the  while  the  active  poison, 
paralyzing  his  efforts  and  destroying  his  strength.  At  the 
thought  of  all  this,  he  cried  out,  in  overwhelming  horror  and 
rage :  "  You  are  about  to  die ! " 

She  did  not  believe  that  he  would  ever  find  courage  to  kill 
her,  and  continued  to  lash  him  with  her  scornful  laugh. 

"You  are  going  to  kill  me!     Kill  me,  then,  if  you  dare!" 

Suddenly  in  his  frantic  quest  he  caught  sight  of  the  little 
stove,  where  such  a  grateful  of  coke  burned  that  the  over- 
heated room  seemed  already  like  a  place  on  fire.  "Yes,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "let  there  be  a  gigantic  funeral  pyre,  where  I 
myself  will  fall  in  ashes,  with  this  murderess  and  destroyer, 
amid  the  smoking  ruins  of  the  old  dead  society  which  I  had  the 


4i6  LABOR 

imbecility  to  protect.  Let  the  house  and  the  works  disappear 
in  the  absolute  ruin  which  this  woman  and  her  idiot  lover  have 
compassed!" 

With  a  terrible  kick  he  upset  the  stove  and  threw  it  into  the 
middle  of  the  room,  repeating  his  cry:  "You  are  about  to  die!" 
The  cretonne  curtains  and  the  carpet  caught  fire  first.  Then 
the  furniture  and  the  walls  blazed  with  lightning-like  rapidity. 
The  house,  being  slightly  built,  was  in  turn  quickly  in  flames 
and  smoked  like  a  bundle  of  fagots. 

"I  will  not  die!  I  will  not  die!  Let  me  pass,  assassin!" 
shrieked  Fernande,  throwing  herself  against  the  door.  He 
carried  her  back  to  the  middle  of  the  room,  which  was  now 
changed  into  a  brazier.  A  dreadful  struggle  took  place  there. 
She  dug  her  nails  into  his  flesh.  She  fought  with  a  strength 
made  tenfold  greater  by  the  fear  of  death,  and  sought  for  the 
door  and  windows  with  the  instinctive  leaps  of  a  wounded 
animal;  while  he  held  her  by  force  amid  the  flames,  where  he 
was  resolved  to  die  and  that  she  should  die  with  him,  in  order  to 
annihilate  at  once  an  existence  now  horrible  to  both.  At  length 
the  end  came;  the  blazing  beams  above  gave  way  and  the  whole 
ceiling  fell  upon  them. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  fire  communicated  itself  by  the  passage- 
way to  the  administration  building,  continued  to  advance  by 
the  adjacent  sheds,  and  consumed  the  great  hall  in  which  were 
placed  the  puddling-furnaces  and  the  rolling-mills.  Then  the 
flames  raged  among  the  entire  works,  which  were  almost  all  of 
wood,  dilapidated  and  calcined.  The  firemen  from  Beauclair 
did  not  arrive  until  the  Pit  was  blazing  from  one  end  to  the  other 
of  its  buildings,  which  covered  several  acres. 

At  daybreak  the  purifying  work  was  accomplished,  the 
horizon  was  clear  to  an  infinite  distance,  and  it  was  now  possible 
for  La  Crecherie,  the  city  of  justice  and  peace,  to  allow  the  con- 
quering tide  to  carry  its  houses  up  to  the  utmost  extremity  of 
the  vast  plain.  Lange,  the  anarchist,  said  aloud  to  the  people 
about  him:  "No,  no,  I  cannot  claim  the  honor  of  doing  it;  I 
did  not  set  it  on  fire.  But  it  was  a  splendid  work,  especially  as 
the  owners  furthered  it  by  roasting  themselves."  Lange  was 
right;  a  broken-down  society,  smitten  with  madness,  in  tragic 
periods  throws  itself  upon  a  funeral  pyre.    The  dark,  melan- 


I 


fiMILE   ZOLA  417 

choly  works  at  the  Pit,  where  the  wages  system  had  met  its 
death-blow,  after  its  last  hours  of  dishonored  and  accursed  labor, 
consisted  now  of  nothing  but  a  few  crumbling  walls,  useless 
and  forlorn  under  the  dull  gray  sky. 

Boisgelin  was  utterly  demoralized  by  the  catastrophe.  Al- 
though tenderly  cared  for  by  Suzanne,  the  wife  he  had  outraged, 
he  never  entirely  recovered  his  reason.  He  felt  astray  in  the 
new  Beauclair  that  had  arisen  on  the  ashes  of  the  old,  and  after 
a  few  years  he  committed  suicide. 

And  it  was,  indeed,  a  new  Beauclair.  The  old  unsanitary 
quarters  and  the  filthy  abodes,  where  labor  had  been  slowly 
perishing  for  ages,  were  pulled  down  and  replaced  by  wide 
streets,  planted  with  trees,  and  lined  with  pleasant  houses. 
The  sub-prefecture,  court-house,  and  prison  were  demolished, 
but  the  old  church  still  stood,  crumbling  slowly  to  pieces,  neg- 
lected and  unvisited.  Family  mansions  and  other  houses  of 
pretension  made  way  everywhere  for  more  fraternal  buildings, 
that  stood  in  the  great  garden  which  the  town  now  resembled. 
So  the  new  community  was  founded — a  large  and  glorious  city, 
the  sunny  avenues  of  which  stretched  out  farther  and  farther, 
until  they  spread  between  the  nearest  fields  of  the  fertile  plain  of 
Romagne.  And  in  this  city  love  paired  the  young  men  and 
girls  in  indissoluble  bonds,  the  more  indissoluble  because  not 
sanctioned  by  any  absurd  religious  or  municipal  ceremony. 

When  Luc  was  sixty-five  years  old  other  catastrophes  took 
place  in  the  crumbling  of  the  old  rotten  society  doomed  to  de- 
struction. The  most  startling  event  was  the  falling  of  the  roof 
of  the  old  church  of  St.  Vincent  one  summer  morning  while  the 
Ahh6  Marie  was  at  the  altar  celebrating  mass,  with  no  other 
congregation  than  the  sparrows  flying  about  in  the  deserted 
nave.  The  Abb^  had  long  felt  that  the  world  was  coming  to  an 
end.  All  his  efforts  had  not  been  able  to  save  the  lying,  cor- 
rupting bourgeoisie,  eaten  up  with  greed  and  iniquity.  Science 
went  on  triumphantly,  and  had  now  succeeded  in  establishing  a 
new  religion,  the  religion  of  humanity,  a  religion  of  knowledge, 
a  religion  freed  from  ancient  symbolism  and  old  mythology. 

That  morning  the  Abb^  felt  sure  that  the  fall  of  the  roof 
could  not  be  far  off.  Yet  he  went  on  celebrating  his  last  mass, 
clad  in  his  richest  sacerdotal  vestments,  straight  and  firm,  not- 
A.D.,  VOL.  xvn. — 27 


4i8  LABOR 

withstanding  his  great  age.  As  he  was  reading  the  Gk)spel  he 
heard  a  loud  crack.  Dust,  stone,  and  other  fragments  fell  upon 
the  altar.  When  he  reached  the  offertory  the  noise  began  again, 
with  a  tearing,  rending  sound.  There  was  a  shock,  as  if  the 
whole  building  were  trembling  for  a  moment  before  falling. 
Then  the  priest  with  final  energy  raised  the  Host,  and  with  his 
whole  soul  prayed  God  to  work  a  miracle.  As  he  raised  the 
chalice  it  was  not  the  miracle  he  asked  for  that  was  sent  but  his 
own  martyrdom.  He  stood  erect,  both  arms  raised  above  his 
head,  in  an  attitude  of  firm  belief  and  heroic  constancy,  seem- 
ing to  implore  his  Divine  Master  to  perish  with  him  if  the  end 
of  his  church  had  come.  The  roof  cracked  open  with  a  sound 
like  thunder.  The  steeple  shook,  and  then  fell,  laying  the  nave 
open  to  the  sky,  and  pulling  down  with  it  the  disjointed  walls. 
Nothing  remained  but  an  enormous  pile  of  stones  and  debriSj 
beneath  which  was  never  found  the  mangled  body  of  the  Abb^ 
Marie,  who  seemed  to  have  been  crushed  to  dust  under  the  ruins 
of  the  altar.  Nor  were  any  fragments  of  the  great  crucifix 
foimd,  which  also  had  been  ground  to  powder.  A  religion  had 
been  killed  along  with  the  last  priest,  celebrating  the  last  mass 
in  the  last  church.  After  the  ruins  had  been  cleared  away,  a 
garden  was  planted  on  the  spot,  with  beautiful  trees,  and  um- 
brageous walks  and  intersecting  fragrant  lawns.  Lovers  came 
there  on  pleasant  evenings,  as  they  went  to  the  park  at  La 
Crecherie.  The  happy  city  kept  growing  larger;  the  children 
grew  up,  too,  and  made  new  pairs  of  lovers,  who  in  their  turn 
gave  birth  to  another  generation.  Sweet  roses  seemed  to  grow 
for  them  on  all  bushes. 

During  the  next  ten  years  the  city  was  finally  established,  and 
the  new  social  conditions  of  peace  and  justice  were  organized.  On 
one  of  the  great  labor  holidays  of  the  tenth  year,  Bonnaire,  still 
erect  and  strong  in  his  eighty-fifth  year,  had  an  adventure.  He 
met  a  pauper!  He  could  hardly  believe  his  eyes — a,  pauper  in 
this  happy  country! 

"Surely,  this  is  not  Beauclair!"  stammered  the  foreign- 
looking  creature. 

"Undoubtedly  it  is.     You  knew  it  formerly?" 

"Yes,  more  than  fifty  years  ago." 

It  was  Ragu,  his  face  seamed  by  fifty  years  of  vagabondage 


fiMILE  ZOLA  419 

and  evil  living.  He  listened  with  a  sort  of  stupor  to  Bonnaire's 
account  of  the  changes  in  Bcauclair.  He  could  not  find  his 
bearings  in  the  midst  of  these  events.  He  listened  to  the  pud- 
dler's  account  of  the  happiness  achieved,  the  existence  of  which 
he  wished  to  deny,  for  he  was  the  same  Ragu  in  his  old  age  that 
he  had  been  in  his  youth,  a  slave  at  heart.  Bonnaire  led  him  to 
Lange,  now  the  manager  of  a  large  manufactory  of  earthenware 
and  pottery.  At  first  Ragu  could  not  speak  from  amazement. 
Then,  with  his  terrible  sneer,  he  exclaimed:  *'So,  then,  old 
anarchist,  you  no  longer  talk  of  blowing  up  the  whole  place?" 
Lange  looked  at  him,  without  recognizing  him,  and  laughed: 
''Yes,  I  once  intended  to  burn  up  Beauclair  myself.  But 
enough  justice  has  now  been  done  to  disarm  me.  I  cannot 
destroy  it,  now  that  all  I  wished  for  is  realized.  Isn't  it  the 
case,  Bonnaire,  that  peace  has  been  made?" 

The  former  anarchist  extended  his  hand  to  the  former  col- 
lectivist,  with  whom  he  had  once  many  a  bitter  quarrel.  At 
length  Ragu  saw  Luc  and  Josine,  surrounded  by  their  children 
and  grandchildren.  Then  he  seemed  to  experience  a  change 
of  heart.  He  recoiled  in  horror  and  confessed  to  Bonnaire  that 
he  had  come  to  kill  them  both,  but  had  drawn  back  like  a  coward 
on  seeing  them  so  beautiful  and  radiant  in  their  old  age.  Bon- 
naire shuddered,  and  tried  to  bring  the  unhappy  man  to  his 
house.  But,  with  a  deep  and  smothered  rage,  he  said:  "No,  I 
cannot  look  upon  your  happiness.  I  should  suffer  too  much." 
Then  he  set  out,  pursued  by  the  laughter  and  songs  with  which 
the  great  human  family  celebrated  the  joy  of  labor  on  the  fruit- 
ful earth,  and  was  lost  in  the  darkness. 

More  years  rolled  by,  and  inevitable  death,  the  trusty  worker 
of  eternal  life,  completed  its  labors  by  carrying  away,  one  by 
one,  the  persons  who  had  accompHshed  their  task.  Of  all  their 
generation,  of  all  the  creators  of  triumphal  Beauclair,  only  Luc 
and  Jordan  remained,  surrounded  by  the  affectionate  cares  of 
Josine,  Sceurette,  and  Suzanne.  Then,  on  one  beautiful  sum- 
mer's day,  Luc  spoke  his  last  words:  "Yes,"  he  said,  "the  world 
has  reached  its  last  stage.  Brothers  may  now  give  each  other 
the  fraternal  kiss;  they  are  in  port  after  their  long,  rough  voyage. 
My  day  is  done,  and  now  I  may  go  to  sleep." 


ft 


E 


INDEX   TO   STORIES 


(Volumes  I-XVII) 

The    Roman   numerals    indicate  the  volume  number;   Arabic,  the    page   number. 
Anglicized  form  of  foreign  titles  is  given  in  Roman  type;  the  original  titles,  in  italics. 


The 


Abbe  Constantin,  The,  IX,  345 
Ahh6   Mouret's   Transgression,  The, 

XVII,  321 
Abbot,  The,  XIV,  427 
Abdallah,  XI,  354 
Abner  Daniel,  IX,  381 
Absentee,  The,  VIII,  138 
Adam  Bede,  VIII,  182 
.Eneid,  The,  XVII,  128 
Afloat  and  Ashore,  V,  344 
African  Farm,  An,  Story  of,  XIV,  232 
Agnes  Grey,  III,  214 
Agnes  of  Sorrento,  XVI,  171 
Agnes  Surriage,  IV,  231 
AUce,  or  The  Mysteries,  IV,  26 
All  Sorts  and  Conditions  of  Men,  III, 

41 
Alone,  X,  54 
Altiora  Peto,  XIII,  94 
Alton  Locke,  XI,  222 
Amelia,  VIII,  356 
Andree  de  Taverney,  VIII,  53 
Anglomaniacs,  The,  X,  78 
Anna  Karenina,  XVI,  448 
Anne  of  Geierstein:  or,  The  Maiden 

of  the  Mist,  XV,  144 
Antar,  The  Romance  of,  I,  312 
Antiquary,  The,  XIV,  300 
Antonina,  V,  13 
Archibald  Malmaison,  X,  120 
Armadale,  V,  35 
Arne,  III,  66 
Arthur  Gordon  Pym,  The   Narrative 

of,  XIII,  232 
Ashes  of  Empire,  IV,  334 
Atala,  IV,  372 
At  Sunwich  Port,  XI,  62 
At  the  Red  Glove,  XII,  138 
Aucassin  and  Nicolette,  I,  362 
Auf  der  Hohe  (On  the  Heights),  I,  368 
Aus    dem    Lehen    eines    Taugenichts 

(The  Happy-Go-Lucky),  VIII,  173 
Avenger,  The,  VI,  366 


Awakening   of  Helena   Richie,   The, 

VI,  290 
Azarian,  XV,  388 

Bachelor's  Establishment,  A  (Un 
menage  de  gargon),  II,  212 

Bachelor  of  the  Albany,  The,  XIV, 
224 

Bad  Boy,  The  Story  of  a,  I,  153 

Barchester  Tow^ers,  XVII,  9 

Barnaby  Rudge,  VII,  11 

Beatrice  Cenci,  IX,  298 

Beatrix,  II,  162 

Bel  Ami,  VI,  326 

Belle-Rose,  I,  26 

Ben  Hur,  XVII,  157 

Berlin  and  Sans-Souci,  XII,  416 

Bessy  Conway,  XIV,  154 

Betrothed,  The  (Manzoni),  XII,  170 

Betrothed,  The  (Scott),  XV,  88 

Black  Arrow,  The,  XVI,  54 

Black  Dwarf,  The,  XIV,  313 

Black  Tulip,  The  {La  iulipe  noire), 

vm,  23 

Bleak  House,  VII,  54 

Blithedale  Romance,  The,  X,  162 

Bohemian  Life,  XIII,  23 

Bothwell,  IX,  204 

Bow  of  Orange  Ribbon,  A,  II,  308 

Boyne  Water,  II,  287 

Brave  Lady,  A,  XIII,  12 

Bravo,  The,  V,  212 

Breadwinners,  The,  X,  192 

Bride  of  Lammermoor,  The,  XIV,  363 


Caleb  Williams,  IX,  135 

Called  Back,  V,  93 

Camille,  VIII,  64 

Can  You  Forgive  Her?  XVII,  32 

Cape  Cod  Folks,  IX,  258 

Captains  Courageous,  XI,  321 

Captain  of  the  Janizaries,  The,  XII,  64 


421 


422 


INDEX    TO    STORIES 


Captain's  Daughter,  The,  XIII,  289 
Captain  Fracasse,  IX,  115 
Cardinal's  SnulT-Box,  The,  X,  43 
Career  of  a  Nihilist,  The,  XV,  452 
Carlotta's  Intended,  XVI,  182 
Carmen,  XII,  317 
Cashel  Byron's  Profession,  XV,  227 
Casting  Away  of  Mrs.  Leeks  and  Mrs. 

Aleshine,  The:  The  Dusantes,  XVI, 

112 
Castle  Dangerous,  XV,  174 
Castle  of  Otranto,  The,  XVII,  148 
Castle  Rackrent,  VIII,  132 
Catherine:  A  Story,  XVI,  293 
Catherine  de'  Medici,  II,  193 
Caxtons,  The,  IV,  95 
C6sar  Birotteau,  II,  151 
Chainbearer,  The,  V,  364 
Charles  Auchester,  XV,  245 
Charles  O'Malley,  XI,  401 
Charlotte  Temple,  XIV,  127 
Chartreuse  of  Parma,  The,  XV,  431 
Chevalier  de  Maison-Rouge,  The,  VII, 

411 
Chicot  the  Jester,  VII,  372 
Child  Christopher  and  Goldilind  the 

Fair,  XII,  393 
Children  of  the  Abbey,  The,  XIV,  108 
Children  of  the  Ghetto,  XVII,  292 
Choir  Invisible,  The,  I,  216 
Chouans,  The,  II,  47 
Christie  Johnstone,  XIII,  349 
Cid,  The,  IV,  413 
Cinq-Mars,  VI,  392 
Circuit  Rider,  The,  VIII,  153 
Clarissa  Harlowe,  XIV,  43 
Claude's  Confession,  XVII,  301 
Cloister  and  the  Hearth,  The,  XIII, 

381 

Clemenceau  Case,  The,  VIII,  76 

Coelebs  in  Search  of  a  Wife,  XII,  374 

Colette,  The  Story  of,  XIV,  255 

Collegians,  The,  IX,  274 

Colonel  Carter  of  Cartersville,  XV, 
299 

Colonel's  Opera  Cloak,  The,  III,  315 

Coming  Race,  The,  IV,  163 

Confession  d'un  en/ant  de  siecle  (Con- 
fession of  a  Child  of  the  Century), 
VI,  354 

Confessions  d'un  ouvrier  (Confessions 
of  a  Workingman) ,  XV,  367 

Confession  of  a  Child  of  the  Century 
{Confession  d'un  enfant  de  siecle), 

VI,  354 

Confessions  of  a  Workingman  {Con- 
fessions d'un  ouvrier),  XV,  367 

Coningsby,  VII,  203 


Conquest  of  Rome,  The,  XV,  205 

Conscience,  XII,  159 

Conscript,  The,  VIII,  258 

Consuelo,  XIV,  193 

Contarini  Fleming,  VII,  158 

Cord  and  Creese,  VI,  344 

Corinne,  VI,  385 

Corsican    Brothers,    The    {Les  freres 

corses),  VII,  342 
Cosmopolis,  III,  161 
Count  of  Monte  Cristo,  The,  VII,  319 
Count  Robert  of  Paris,  XV,  159 
Countess  de  Charny,  The,  VIII,  42 
Country  Doctor,  A,  XI,  133 
Cousin  Bette,  II,  244 
Cousin  Pons,  II,  255 
Cranford,  IX,  96 
Crater,  The,  V,  390 
Crime  of  the  Opera,  The,  VII,  297 
Cudjo's  Cave,  XVII,  75 

Daisy  Miller,  XI,  96 

Dame    aux    camelias,    La    (Camille), 

VIII,  64 
Damiano,  IV,  291 

Damnation  of  Theron  Ware,  The,  IX, 

37 
Daniel  Deronda,  VIII,  245 
Das    Geheimniss    der    alien    Mamsell 

(The  Old  Mam'selle's  Secret),  XII, 

180 
David  Balfour,  XVI,  67 
David  Copperfield,  VII,  44 
David  Elginbrod,  XII,  108 
Dead  Souls,  IX,  170 
Dehdcle,  Le  (The  Downfall),  XVII, 

387 
Debit  and  Credit  {Soil  und  Haben), 

IX,  48 
Decameron,  The,  III,  122 
Deerslayer,  The,  V,  295 
DeUverance,  The,  IX,  126 
Devereux,  III,  365 

Diana  of  the  Crossways,  XII,  310 
Die    W ahlverwandtschaften    (Elective 

Affinities),  IX,  160 
Disowned,  The,  III,  355 
Distinguished  Provincial  at  Paris,  A, 

n,  173 

Divine  Fire,  The,  XV,  288 
Doctor  Antonio,  XIV,  136 
Doctor  Johns,  XII,  326 
Dombcy  and  Son,  VII,  33 
Donovan,  XII,  73 
Don  Quixote,  IV,  320 
Dorothy  South,  VIII,  162 
Dorothy  Vernon  of  Haddon  Hall,  XII, 
149 


INDEX   TO    STORIES 


423 


Dossier  No.  1 1 3,  Le  (File  No.  113), 

IX,  57  .        . 

Double  Marriage,  A:  or,  White  Lies, 

XIII,  364 
Double  Thread,  A,  IX,  20 
DownfaU,  The  {Le  Debdcle),   XVII, 

387 
Drink  {UAssommoir),  XVII,  331 
Dusantcs,    The,    and    The     Casting 
Away  of  Mrs.  Leeks  and  Mrs.  Ale- 
shine,  XVI,  112 
Duke  of  Stockbridge,  The,  III,  12 

East  Lynne,  XVII,  259 

Eben  Holden,  II,  24 

Eddas,  The,  VIII,  128 

Egoist,  The,  XII,  299 

Elective  Affinities  {Die  Wahlverwandt- 

schajten),  IX,  160 
Eleventh         Commandment,         The 

{Uundecimo  comandamenio) ,  II,  334 
Elsa,  XI,  345 
Elsie  Venner,  X,  297 
Emma,  I,  408 
Enchantment     {Uincantesiino)^     IV, 

221 
Endymion,  VII,  249 
Epicurean,  The,  XII,  368 
Ernest  Maltravers,  IV,  13 
Esther  Waters,  XII,  336 
Eugene  Aram,  III,  391 
Eugenie  Grandet,  II,  95 
Evangelist,  The,  VI,  158 
Evelina,  IV,  211 

Fair   Maid   of   Perth,   The:    or,    St. 

Valentine's  Day,  XV,  130 
Falkland,  III,  335 
Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher,  The,  XIII, 

239 

Fallen  Idol,  A,  I,  300 

Family  Feud,  A,  IX,  390 

Fanshawe,  X,  130 

Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd,  X,  i 

Fashion  and  Famine,  XVI,  443 

Fathers  and  Sons,  XVII,  85 

Fecondite,  La  (Fruitfulness),  XVII, 
398 

Felix  Holt,  the  Radical,  VIII,  223 

Ferdinand,  Count  Fathom,  The  Ad- 
ventures of,  XV,  334 

File  No.  113  {Le  Dossier  No.  1 13), 

IX,  57 
Fisher-Maiden,  The,  III,  77 
Fiskerjenten     (The     Fisher-Maiden), 

III,  77 
Fool's  Errand,  A,  XVI,  490 
Footsteps  of  a  Throne,  The,  XIII,  200 


Forbidden  Fruit  (Natnenlose  Gesich- 
ten),  IX,  316 

Forest  Lovers,  The,  X,  220 

Fortunes  of  Nigel,  The,  XV,  16 

Foul  riay,  XIII,  418 

Frankenstein:  or.  The  Modern  Pro- 
metheus, XV,  238 

Frcres  corses^  Les  (The  Corsican  Broth- 
ers), VII,  342 

Friends:  a  Duet,  XIII,  212 

Friendship,  XIII,  145 

Fromont  and  Risler,  VI,  92 

Fruitfulness  {La  fecondite),  XVII,  398 

Gabriel  Conroy,  X,  88 

Gabriel  TolHver,  X,  66 

Garden  of  Allah,  The,  X,  263 

Gentleman  from  Indiana,  The,  XVI, 
250 

Gentleman  of  France,  A,  XVII,  210 

Gerfaut,  VI,  234 

Germinal,  XVII,  364 

Giant's  Robe,  The,  I,  280 

Gil  Bias,  XI,  391 

God  and  the  Man,  III,  327 

Godolphin,  III,  406 

God's  Fool,  XII,  84 

Golden  House,  The,  XVII,  181 

Good-Bye,  Sweetheart,  III,  293 

Gordian  Knot,  The,  III,  285 

Grandison,  Sir  Charks,  History  of, 
XIV,  54 

Grandissimes,  The,  IV,  241 

Grannarna  (The  Neighbors),  III,  203 

Graustark,  XII,  96 

Graziella,  XI,  365 

Great  Expectations,  VII,  94 

Green  Carnation,  The,  X,  251 

Green  Mountain  Boys,  The,  XVI,  422 

Grettir  the  Outlaw,  II,  298 

Greyslaer,  X,  275 

Griffith  Gaunt,  XIII,  407 

Guardian  Angel,  The,  X,  307 

Guenn,  X,  345 

Gulliver's  Travels,  XVI,  224 

Gunmaker  of  Moscow,  The,  V,  i 

Gunnar,  HI,  172 

Guy  Mannering,  XIV,  286 

Guzman  d'Alfarache,  Life  and  Ad- 
ventures of,  I,  177 

Hajji  Baba  of  Ispahan,  The  Adven- 
tures of,  XII,  383 

Hammer  and  Anvil  {Hammer  und 
Amboss),  XV,  376 

Hammer  und  Amboss  (Hammer  and 
Anvil),  XV,  376 


424 


INDEX   TO    STORIES 


Han  d'  Islande    (Hans   of   Iceland), 

XI,  I 
Handy  Andy,  XII,  52 
Hans  Brinker:  or,  the  Silver  Skates, 

VII,  259 
Hans    of    Iceland    {^Han  d'lslatide), 

XI,  I 
Happy  -  Go-Lucky,    The     {Aus  dem 

Lehen    eines     Taugenichts) ,    VIII, 

173 
Hard  Cash,  XIII,  400 
Hard  Times,  VII,  65 
Harold,  IV,  84 
Headlong  Hall,  XIII,  189 
Headsman,  The,  V,  239 
Heart  of  Midlothian,  The,  XIV,  350 
Heavenly  Twins,  The,  IX,  193 
Heidenmauer,  The,  V,  226 
Heideprinzesschen  (A  Little  Moorland 

Princess),  XII,  192 
Heir  of  Redclyffe,  The,  XVII,  282 
He  Knew  He  Was  Right,  XVII,  42 
Helen's  Babies,  IX,  310 
Henrietta  Temple,  VII,  182 
Henry  Esmond,  The  History  of,  XVI, 

346 
Henry  Masterton,  XI,  85 
Henry  the  Eighth  and  His  Court,  XII, 

403 
He  re  ward  the  Wake,  XI,  255 
Herr  Paulus,  III,  47 
Histoire  d'un  conscrit  de  181  j  (The 

Conscript),  VIII,  158 
Home     as     Found     and    Homeward 

Bound,  V,  259 
Home  Influence,  I,  45 
Homo  Sum,  VIII,  108 
Honorable  Peter  Stirling,  The,  VIII, 

411 
Horseshoe  Robinson,  XI,  208 
Hour  and  the  Man,  The,  XII,  203 
House  in  Bloomsbury,  A,  XIII,  114 
House  of  Mirth,  The,  XVII,  221 
House  of  the  Seven  Gables,  The,  X, 

152 
Hulda,  XII,  I 
Humphry  Clinker,  XV,  356 
Hypatia,  XI,  233 
Hyperion,  XII,  39 

Iliad,  The,  X,  326 

II  Santo  (The  Saint),  VIII,  400 

Immortal,  The,  VI,  168 

Indiana,  XIV,  181 

Inheritance,  The,  VIII,  290 

Initials,  The,  XVI,  261 

Ink-Stain,    The   {Un  tache   d'encre). 

n.  35S 


Innocencia,  VII,  123 

In  Paradise,  X,  240 

In  the  Days  of  My  Youth,  VIII,  148 

In  the  Year '13,  XIV,  13 

Intruder,  The  (L'innocenie),  I,  248 

Iron  Heart,  The,  X,  108 

Ironmaster,     The     {Le     maitre     des 

forges),    XIII,  81 
Irrational  Knot,  The,  XV,  217 
It  Is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend,  XIII, 

356 
Ivanhoe,  XIV,  386 

Jack,  VI,  102 

Jack  Sheppard,  I,  106 

Jack  Tier,  V,  402 

Jacqueline,  III,  23 

Jane  Eyre,  III,  230 

Jane  Field,  XVII,  248 

Japhet  in  Search  of  a  Father,  XII,  214 

John  Godfrey's  Fortunes,  XVI,  273 

John  Halifax,  Gentleman,  XIII,  i 

John  Inglesant,  XV,  256 

John  Marchmont's  Legacy,  III,  192 

Jonathan  Wild,  VIII,  328 

Joseph  Andrews,  The  Adventures  of, 

VHI,  319 
Joseph  Balsamo,  VII,  422 
Joshua  Marvel,  VIII,  268 
Journey  in  Other  Worlds,  A,  I,  340 
Juif  errant,  Le  (The  Wandering  Jew), 

XVI,  211 
Jungle  Book,  The,  XI,  330 

Kenelm  Chillingly,  IV,  144 

Kenilworth,  XV,  i 

Kidnapped,  XVI,  44 

King  Noanett,  XVI,  102 

King  of  the  Mountains,  The  {Le  rot 

des  montagnes),  I,  13 
King  Solomon's  Mines,  IX,  328 
Kings  in  Exile  {Rots  en  exit),  VI,  113 
Kreutzer  Sonata,  The,  XVI,  459 

Labor  {Le  travail),  XVII,  409 

La  Conquista  di  Roma  (The  Conquest 

of  Rome),  XV,  205 
Lady  Audley's  Secret,  III,  181 
Lady  of  Quality,  A,  IV,  205 
Lady  Rose's  Daughter,  XVII,  168 
La  femme  de  trente  ans  (A  Woman  of 

Thirty),  II,  66 
La  Fiammetta,  III,  145 
Lamplighter,  The,  VI,  60 
Land,  The  {La  Terre),  XVII,  376 
La  peau  de  chagrin  (The  Magic  Skin), 

11,58 
UAssommoir  (Drink),  XVII,  331 


INDEX    TO    STORIES 


425 


Last  Days  of  Pompeii,  The,III,  415 
Last  of  the  Barons,  The,  IV,  73 
Last  of  the  Mohicans,  The,  V,  161 
Lavengro,  III,  151 
Lawrie  Todd,  IX,  88 
Lazarillo  de  Tormes,  XII,  280 
Lazarre,  IV,  308 
Leavenworth  Case,  The,  IX,  239 
Legend  of  Montrose,  A,  XIV,  374 
Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  The,  XI,  53 
Leiden  des  jungen  Werther,  Die  (The 

Sorrows  of  Young  Werther),  IX,  141 
Leila,  or  the  Siege  of  Grenada,  IV, 

40 
Le  lys  dans  la  vallee  (The  Lily  of  the 

Valley),  II,  129 
Le  Maitre  des  forges  (The   Ironmas- 
ter), XIII,  81 
Le  roi  des  montagnes  (The  King  of  the 

Mountains),  I,  13 
Les  illusions  perdues  (Lost  Illusions), 

II,  140 
Les  Mis^rables,  X,  400 
L'homme  d,  Voreille  cassee  (The  Man 

with  the  Broken  Ear),  I,  i 
L'homme    qui    rit    (The    Man    Who 

Laughs),  XI,  13 
Life,  A  {Unevie),  VI,  316 
Light  that  Failed,  The,  XI,  307 
Lilac  Sunbonnet,  The,  VI,  40 
Lily  of  the  Valley,  The  {Le  lys  dans 

la  vallee),  II,  129 
L'incantesimo  (Enchantment),  IV,  221 
L'innocente  (The  Intruder),  I,  248 
Lionel  Lincoln,  V,  148 
Lion's  Brood,  The,  XIII,  127 
Little  Dorrit,  VII,  74 
Little  Lord  Fauntleroy,  IV,  195 
Little  Minister,  The,  II,  326 
Little  Moorland  Princess,  A  {Heide- 

prinzesschen),  XII,  192 
Little  Parish  Church,  The  {La  petite 

paroisse),  VI,  187 
Little  Savage,  The,  XII,  237 
Little  Women,  I,  142 
Lodsen  eg  hans  Hustru  (The  Pilot  and 

His  Wife),  XII,  20 
Looking  Backward,  III,  i 
Lorna  Doone,  III,  112 
Lost  Illusions  {Les  illusions  perdues)^ 

II,  140 
Lost  Sir  Massingberd,  XIII,  177 
Lothair,  VII,  235 
Louis  Lambert,  II,  77 
Louisa  de  Clermont,  VI,  255 
Love  Me  Little,  Love  Me  Long,  XIII, 

374 
Lovel  the  Widower,  XVI,  390 


Lover's  Heart,  The  (Decameron),  III, 
142 

Lusiad,  The,  IV,  273 

Lucretia,  IV,  155 

Vundecimo  comandamento  (The  Elev- 
enth Commandment),  II,  334 

Lys  rouge,  Le  (The  Red  Lily),  IX,  30 

Macleod  of  Dare,  III,  105 
Madame  Bovary,  VIII,  367 
Madame  Chrysanth^me,  XII,  45 
Madame  Sans-Gene,  XI,  380 
Madeleine,  XIV,  217 
Mademoiselle  de  Maupin,  IX,  106 
Mademoiselle  Duval,  IX,  356 
Magic  Skin,  The  {La  peau  de  chagrin) , 

11,58 
Maid  of  Belleville,  The  {La  pucelle  de 

Belleville),  VI,  279 
Malavoglia,  The,  XVII,  107 
Man  and  Wife,  V,  48 
Man  of  Feeling,  The,  XII,  117 
Manon  Lescaut,  XIII,  279 
Mansfield  Park,  I,  398 
Man  Who    Laughs,   The    {Uhoinme 

qui  rit),  XI,  13 
Man    with    the    Broken     Ear,    The 

{Uhomme  a  Voreille  cassee),  I,  i 
Marble  Faun,  The,  X,  171 
Margarethe,  XI,  183 
Marco  Visconti,  IX,  287 
Margherita  Pusterla,  IV,  278 
Marguerite  de  Valois,  VII,  361 
Marianela,  IX,  82 
Marie  Antoinette  and  Her  Son,  XII, 

429 
Marius  the  Epicurean,  XIII,  167 
Martin  Chuzzlewit,  VII,  22 
Master  and  Man,  XVI,  470 
Master  of  Ballantrae,  The:  A]Winter's 

Tale,  XVI,  32 
Master  of  the  Ceremonies,  The,  VIII, 

279 
Mauprat,  XIV,  206 
Max  Havelaar,  VI,  269 
Mayor  of  Casterbridge,  The,  X,  22 
Melmoth  the  Wanderer,  XII,  249 
Member  for  Arcis,  The,  II,  266 
Memoir e  d'un  medicin  (Memoirs  of  a 

Physician),  VIII,  i 
Memoirs  of  a  Physician,  The:  VIII^  i 
Memoirs  of  Barry  Lyndon,  The,  XVI, 

304 
Mercedes  of  Castile,  V,  283 
Middle  Classes,  The,  II,  277 
Middlemarch,  VIII,  234 
Midshipman  Easy,  Mr.,  XII,  226 
Miles  Wallingford,  V,  335 


426 


INDEX   TO    STORIES 


Mill  on  the  Floss,  The,  VIII,  191 
Minister's  Wooing,  The,  XVI,  160 
Mistress  Regained,  The  (Decameron), 

HI,  135 

Moby  Dick,  XII,  269 
Modern  Instance,  A,  X,  356 
Modeste  Mignon,  II,  233 
Monarch  of  Mincing  Lane,  The,  III, 

86 
Monastery,  The,  XIV,  413 
Money-Makers,  The,  XI,  195 
Monikins,  The,  V,  251 
Monk  of  Fife,  A,  XI,  371 
Monk,  The,  XII,  11 
Monsieur  de  Camors,  VIII,  310 
Monsieur  Lecoq,  IX,  64 
Mont  Oriol,  VI,  307 
Moods,  I,  132 
Moonstone,  The,  V,  69 
Morgesons,  The,  XVI,  123 
Mortal  Antipathy,  A,  X,  318 
Morton  House,  XIV,  i 
Mother's  Recompense,  The,  I,  57 
Mr.  Isaacs,  VI,  20 
My  Novel,  IV,  106 
Mysteres  de  Paris^  Les  (The  Mysteries 

of  Paris),  XVI,  197 
Mysteries  of  Paris,  The,  XVI,  197 
Mysteries  of  Udolpho,  The,  XIII,  318 
Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood,  The,  VII, 

114 

Nabob,  The,  VI,  124 
Nameless  Nobleman,  A,  II,  i 
Namenlose      Gesichten       (Forbidden 

Fruit) 
Nana,  XVII,  352 
Nancy,  III,  304 
Narrative    of   Arthur    Gordon   Pym, 

The,  XIII,  232 
Neighbor  Jack  wood,  XVII,  63 
Neighbors,  The  (Grannarna),  III,  203 
Newcomes,  The,  XVI,  359 
New  H^loifse,  The  {La  nouvelle  HS- 

loise),  XIV,  119 
New  Race,  A,  XIII,  333 
Nicholas  Nickleby,  VI,  420 
Nick  of  the  Woods,  III,  55 
Night  and  Morning,  IV,  51 
'Ninety-Three,  XI,  24 
No  Name,  V,  58 
Northanger  Abbey,  I,  427 
Norwood,  II,  406 
Not  Angels  Quite,  VII,  269 
Notre  Dame  de  Paris,  X,  388 
Nouvelle    Heloise,    La     (The    New 

Heloise),  XIV,  119 
Numa  Roumestan,  VI,  149 


Oak  Openings,  The,  V,  411 

Off  the  SkelUgs,  XI,  36 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  The,  VII,  i 

Oliver  Twist,  VI,  410 

Old    Mam'sclle's    Secret,  The   {Das 

Geheimniss  der  alien  Mansell),  XII, 

180 
Old  Mortality,  XIV,  323 
Old  Myddleton's  Money,  X,  203 
Oldtown  Folks,  XVI,  149 
On  Both  Sides,  II,  370 
On  the  Face  of  the  Waters,  XV,  408 
On  the  Heights,  {Auf  der  Hohe)  1, 368 
Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel,  The,  XII, 

287 
Orley  Farm,  XVII,  20 
Oroonoko:  or.  The  Royal  Slave,  II, 

428 
O.  T.,  I,  226 
Our  Mutual  Friend,  VII,  104 

Page  d^ amour,  Un  (A  Page  of  Love), 

XVII,  340 
Page  of  Love,  A,  XVII,  340 
Page  of  the  Duke  of  Savoy,  The,  VII, 

400 
Pamela,  XIV,  32 
Papa  Bouchard,  XV,  188 
Parisians,  The,  IV,  171 
Passe  Rose,  IX,  409 
Pathfinder,  The,  V,  270 
Paul  and  Virginia,  VI,  374 
Paul  Bronckhorst,  XIV,  244 
Paul  CHfiford,  III,  378 
Paul  Kelver,  XI,  122 
Pausanias  the  Spartan,  IV,  179 
Pearce  Amerson's  Will,  XI,  162 
Peg  Woffington,  XIII,  340 
Pelham,  III,  340 
Pendennis,  XVI,  316 
P^re  Goriot,  II,  106 
Peregrine  Pickle,  XV,  323 
Persuasion,  I,  418 
Peter  Ibbetson,  VIII,  86 
Peter  Schlemihl,  IV,  346 
Petite  paroisse,  La  (The  Little  Parish 

Church),  VI,  187 
Peveril  of  the  Peak,  XV,  32 
Pharais,  XII,  128 

Philip,  The  Adventures  of,  XVI,  400 
Picciola,  XIV,  167 
Pickwick  Papers,  VI,  400 
Picture  of  Dorian  Gray,  The,  XVII, 

236 
Pierre  and  Jean,  VI,  335 
Pilot,  The,  V,  138 
Pilot  and  His  ;Wife,  The  {Lodsen  og 

hans  Hustru),  XII,  20 


i 


INDEX    TO    STORIES 


427 


Pioneers,  The,  V,  124 
Pirate,  The,  XIV,  399 
Pit,  The:  A  Story  of  Chicago,  XIII, 

46 
Portrait  of  a  Lady,  The,  XI,  108 
Prairie,  The,  V,  181 
Precaution,  V,  loi 
Pride  and  Prejudice,  I,  387 
Prince  Otto,  XVI,  12 
Princess  of  Thule,  A,  III,  98 
Prince  Zilah,  IV,  424 
Prisoner  of  Zenda,  The,  X,  337 
Professor,  The,  III,  263 
Pramessi  Sposi,  I   (The  Betrothed), 

XII,  170 
Pucelle  de  Belleville,  La  (The  Maid  of 

Belleville),  VI,  279 
Put  Yourself  in  His  Place,  XVI,  426 

Qtiarante-cinq,   Les  (The   Forty-Five 

Guardsmen),  VII,  382 
Quatre-vingt    treize    ('Ninety-Three), 

XI,  24 
Queen's  Necklace,  The,  VIII,  12 
Quentin  Durward,  XV,  46 
Quick  or  the  Dead,  The,  XIV,  88 
Quo  Vadis?  XV,  266 

Ramona,  XI,  73 

Rasselas,  History  of.  The,  XI,  139 
Ravenshoe,  XI,  296 
Ready-Money  Mortiboy,  III,  34 
Recollections  of  Geoff ry  Hamlyn,  XI, 

284 
Red  and  Black  {Rouge  et  noir),  XV, 

419 
Redgauntlet:  A  Tale  of  the  Eighteenth 

Century,  XV,  74 
Red  Lily,  The  {Le  lys  rouge),  IX,  30 
Red  Pottage,  IV,  389 
Red  Rover,  The,  V,  171 
Redskins,  The,  V,  377 
Reds  of  the  Midi,  The,  IX,  221 
Reine    des    hois,    La    (A   Woodland 

Queen),  XVI,  411 
Ren6,  IV,  378 
Ren6e  Mauperin,  VI,  264 
Resurrection,  XVI,  479 
Return  of  the  Native,  The,  X,  1 1 
Reynard  the  Fox,  XIV,  26 
Richard  Carvel,  IV,  400 
Richard  Yea-and-Nay,  X,  229 
Rienzi:  Last  of  the  Tribunes,  IV,  i 
Right  of  Way,  The,  XIII,  156 
Rip  Van  Winkle,  XI,  46 
Rise  of  Silas  Lapham,  The,  X,  367 
Rita:  An  Autobiography,  I,  69 
Robber  of  the  Rhine,  The,  XIV,  77 


Robinson  Crusoe,  VI,  245 

Rob  Roy,  XIV,  337 

Roderick  Random,  XV,  310 

Rogue,  The,  XIII,  56 

Rois  en  exil,  (Kings  in  Exile),  VI,  113 

Roman  Singer,  A,  VI,  31 

Romance  of  a  Poor  Young  Man,  The 

{Le  rotnan  d'un  pauvre  jeune  homme), 

VIII,  301 
Romance  of  a  Schoolmaster,  The  (// 

romanzo  d^un  maestro),  VI,  221 
Romance  of  the  Forest,  The,  XIII, 

308 
Romance  of  Two  Worlds,  A,  VI,  8 
Romance    of    Youth,    A   {Toute  ma 

jeunesse),  VI,  i 
Roman  d'un  jeune  homme  pauvre,  Le 

(The  Romance  of  a  Poor  Young 

Man),  VIII,  301 
Romanzo  d'un  maestro,  II   (The   Ro- 
mance of  a  Schoolmaster),  VI,  221 
Romola,  VIII,  212 
Rose  and  Ninette,  VI,  182 
Rouge  et  Noir  (Red  and  Black),  XV, 

419 
Ruth  Hall,  VIII,  285 

St.  Ives,  XVI,  90 

St.  Leger,  XI,  214 

St.  Ronan's  Well,  XV,  62 

Saint,  The  {II  Santo),  VIII,  400 

Salammb6,  VIII,  378 

Salathiel,  VI,  49 

Salem  Chapel,  XIII,  104 

Samuel  Brohl  and  Company,  IV,  381 

Sappho,  VI,  135 

Saragossa,  IX,  72 

Satanstoe,  V,  333 

Scarlet  Letter,  The,  X,  141 

Scenes  de  la  vie  de  Bohime  (Bohemian 

Life),  XIII,  23 
Sch6nberg-Cotta  Family,  The,  IV,  360 
Scottish  Chiefs,  The,  XIII,  260 
Sea  Lions,  The,  V,  423 
Sea-Wolf,  The,  XII,  29 
Sense  and  Sensibility,  I,  377 
Sentimental  Education,  VIII,  389 
Sentimental  Journey,  A,  XV,  475 
Septimius  Felton,  X,  i8i 
Seraphita,  II,  117 
Serge  Panine,  XIII,  67 
Sevenoaks,  X,  288 
Severa,  X,  99 
Sforza,  I,  352 

Shabby-Genteel  Story,  A,  XVI,  370 
She,  IX,  338 
Shirley,  III,  241 
Silas  Marner,  VIII,  201 


428 


INDEX   TO    STORIES 


Silence  of  Dean  Maitland,  The,  IX, 

229 
Simpleton,  A,  XIII,  447 
Sintram  and  His  Companions,  IX,  11 
Sir  Launcelot   Greaves,  The  Adven- 
tures of,  XV,  345 
Sister  to  Evangeline,  A,  XIV,  98 
Sky  Pilot,  The,  V,  83 
Small  House  at  Allington,  The,  XVII, 

42 
Smoke,  XVII,  96 
Soldiers  of  Fortune,  VI,  215 
Soil  und  Hahen  (Debit  and  Credit), 

IX,  48 
Sons  of  the  Morning,  XIII,  221 
Sorrows  of  Young  Werther,  The  {Die 

Leiden  des  jungen  Werther),  IX,  141 
Soutien  de  Famtlle,  Le  (The  Support 

of  the  Family),  VI,  195 
Splendid  Spur,  The,  XIII,  302 
Spy,  The,  V,  113 
Start  in  Life,  A  {Un  debut  dans  la 

vie),  II,  223 
Stepping  Heavenward,  XIII,  271 
Stillwater  Tragedy,  The,  I,  162 
Story  of    Margaret   Kent,  The,   XI, 

337 
Strange  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton,  The, 

m,  92 

Strange  Case  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr. 

Hyde,  The,  XVI,  24 
Strange  Story,  A,  IV,  134 
Study  in  Scarlet,  A,  VII,  280 
Summer  in  Arcady,  I,  207 
Support    of    the     Family,    The     {Le 

Soutien  de  Famille),  VI,  195 
Swiss  Family  Robinson,  The,  XVII, 

268 
Sybil:  or.  The  Two  Nations,  VII,  217 

Taking  the  Bastile,  VIII,  31 
Tale  of  Two  Cities,  A,  VII,  84 
TaHsman,  The,  XV,  102 
Tancred,  VII,  227 
Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  VI,  80 
Tenant  of  Wildfell  Hall,  The,  III,  222 
Ten  Nights  in  a  Bar-room,  I,  330 
Ten  Thousand  a  Year,  XVII,  198 
Terre,  La  (The  Land),  XVII,  376 
Terrible  Temptation,  A,  XIII,  437 
Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles,  X,  32 
Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,  XIII,  248 
That  Lass  o'  Lowrie's,  IV,  185 
Therese  Raquin,  XVII,  312 
Thief  in  the  Night,  The,  XV,  398 
Three  Miss  Kings,  The,  IV,  263 
Three    Musketeers,    The,    {Les    trois 
mousquetaires)^  VII,  307 


Three  Rings,  The  (Decameron),  III 

126 
Timar's  Two  Worlds,  XI,  171 
Tinted  Venus,  The,  I,  292 
Titan,  XIV,  65 

To  Have  and  to  Hold,  XI,  149 
Toilers  of  the  Sea,  X,  424 
Tom  Brown's  School  Days,  X,  377 
Tom  Burke  of  Ours,  XI,  411 
Tom  Cringle's  Log,  XIV,  264 
Tom  Jones,  The  History  of,  VIII,  339 
Toute   ma   jeunesse   (A   Romance   of 

Youth),  VI,  I 
Tower  of  London,  The,  I,  94 
Travail,  Le  (Labor),  XVII,  409 
Travailleurs  de  la  mer  (Toilers  of  the 

Sea),  X,  424 
Treasure  Island,  XVI,  i 
Trilby,  VIII,  97 
Trionfo  della  morte,  II  (The  Triumph 

of  Death),  I,  258 
Tristram  Shandy,  XV,  462 
Triumph  of  Death,   The  {II  trionfo 

della  morte),  I,  258 
Trois  mousquetaires ,  Les  (The  Three 

Musketeers),  VII,  307 
Trumps,  VI,  71 
Twenty  Thousand  Leagues  Under  the 

Sea  {Vingt  mille  lieues  sous  les  mers) 

XVII,  118 
Twenty  Years  After  {Vingt  ans  apris)^ 

vn,  331 

Two  Admirals,  The,  V,  305 

Two  Baronesses,  The,  I,  236 

Two  Dianas,  The,  VII,  392 

Two  Years  Ago,  XI,  265 

Tulipe  Noire,  La  (The  Black  TuUp), 

VIII,  23 
Typee,  XII,  259 

Uarda,  VIII,  117 

Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  XVI,  134 

Un  debut  dans  la  vie  (A  Start  in  Life) , 

II,  223 
Under  Two  Flags,  XIII,  134 
Undine,  IX,  i 
Une  Vie  (A  Life),  VI,  316 
Unleavened  Bread,  IX,  209 
Un  menage  de  gargon  (A  Bachelor's 

Establishment),  II,  212 
Un  tache  d'encre  (The  Ink-Stain),  II, 

358 
Ursule  Mirouet,  II,  184 

Valentine  Vox,  V,  7 
Vanity  Fair,  XVI,  332 
Vathek:  An  Arabian  Tale,  II,  382 
Venetia,  VII,  192 


INDEX   TO    STORIES 


429 


Verdant  Green,  Mr.,  Adventures  of, 

n,  394 
Vicar  of  Wakefield,  The,  IX,  182 
Vice  Versa,  I,  269 

Vicomte  de  Bragelonne,  The,  VII,  350 
Village  on  the  CUU,  The,  XVI,  282 
Villette,  III,  252 
Vingt     ans     aprhs     (Twenty     Years 

After),  VII,  2>Z^ 
Vingt    mille     lieues     sous    les    titers 

(Twenty  Thousand  Leagues  Under 

the  Sea), 
Virginians,  The,  XVI,  379 
Vivian  Grey,  VII,  133 
Voyage  of  Discovery,  A,  I,  82 

Waiting  for  the  Verdict,  VI,  204 
Wandering  Jew,  The  {Le  juif  errant)  ^ 

XVI,  211 
War  and  Peace,  XVI,  433 
Warden,  The,  XVII,  i 
Water  Babies,  The,  XI,  276 
Water  Witch,  The,  V,  205 
Waverley,  XIV,  273 
Way  of  the  World,  The,  XIII,  35 
Ways  of  the  Hour,  V,  431 
Weir  of  Hermiston,  XVI,  77 
Wenderholme,  IX,  369 
Wept  of  Wish-ton-wish,  The,  V,  193 
Westward  Ho!  XI,  244 
What  Will  He  Do  With  It?  IV,  122 
Wheel  of  Fire,  A,  II,  348 
Which  Shall  It  Be?  I,  188 


White  Company,  The,  VII,  286 
Wide,  Wide  World,  The,  XVII,  191 
Wife's    Revenge,    The    (Decameron), 

III,  128 
Wilhelm     Meister's     Apprenticeship, 

IX,  149 
Willy  Reilly,  IV,  301 
Wind  of  Destiny,  The,  IX,  399 
Window  in  Thrums,  A,  II,  320 
Wing  and  Wing,  V,  312 
Woman-Hater,  A,  XIII,  456 
Woman  in  White,  The,  V,  24 
Woman  of  Thirty,  A  {La  jemmc  de 

trente  ans),  II,  66 
Wondrous  Tale  of  Akoy,  The,  VII, 

169 
Woodland   Queen,  A   {La  reine  des 

hois),  XVI,  411 
Woodstock:  or.  The  Cavalier,  XV,  116 
Wooing  o't.  The,  I,  197 
Wreck  of  the  Grosvenor,  The,  XIV, 

147 
Wuthering  Heights,  HI,  273 
Wyandotte,  V,  320 

Yemassee,  The,  XV,  279 

Youma,  X,  212 

Young  Duke,  The,  VII,  147 

Zadig,  XVII,  135 
Zanoni,  1\\  61 
Zeluco,  XII,  357 
Zibeline,  VI,  302 


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